Chapter 33 A Prison of Promises #2
My hand lifts to tent over my eyes against the rising sun.
I stare at the approaching ships, the salt-laced winds whipping strands of hair from the crown braid Rowan helped me bind it into the night before.
They’d been specks only hours ago, but they’re closing in fast now, their white sails bellied with purpose.
The two smaller brigs, lean and swift, take lead over the larger galleon, cutting through the cerulean water like sharks running with a blood scent.
A desperate, reckless thought flickers—maybe tossing old Solomon overboard really would be our best bet.
They’d have to slow down to fish him out, yes?
Then we could make it through the pass without all the extra finesse.
Even if only one ship stopped and the other continued for us, the Nightingale could hold its own against the smaller vessel until we reached land.
“Orders, Captain?” Tannin’s appeared, coming up off the quarterdeck to stand with us at the helm. His question rips me from my thoughts.
I blink around us: a crew full of tense faces below, gripping ropes, their eyes fixed on the horizon.
Rowan and Sabre join us. Rowan offers out a hand and a strained smile.
I reach for her, indulging in the warmth of her palm against mine.
It feels strange now—calloused and rough, but still familiar enough to bring comfort.
“Clear the deck,” Rhyland finally says after a thoughtful pause. “Make ready the guns. All men to stations. Everyone not trained to fight will hunker below. We follow Searle’s orders. Fulls sails forward, drive her down. Prepare to turn hard to port on his mark.”
“Aye, Captain.” Tannin nods and his voice carries across the deck when he shouts. “YOU HEARD THE MAN. TO STATIONS, YE SEA DOGS. LOAD AND PRIME. FULL SAILS!”
The call to action is immediate and the Nightingale springs to life. The crew jump to positions, pulling ropes, positioning sails, and I feel the change in speed with a quick lurch in my stomach.
“You’d better be right about this,” Rhyland says softly in a deadly tone to Searle, though his gaze never leaves the churning waters ahead.
Searle gives him a grin that makes his weathered face look more haggard than ever.
The twins let him go and he moves to stand at the ship wheel right beside Tobias.
“Rudder to midship. Send ‘er straight through, young man.” Searle uses his good hand to draw a crooked finger along the pass and the bay beyond which spreads a few leagues before it hits the harbor, an inky tide of indigo and violet.
“We’re getting you down below, love,” Sabre whispers over the whistling wind to Rowan.
Rowan frowns. “I can help, can’t I?”
Sabre shakes her head firmly. And when Rhyland looks at her, then me, I know what’s coming and quickly speak first.
“Absolutely not, Pirate. I’m not going below. You’re not keeping me out of this fight.” The rune on my chest burns softly as if in agreement.
The faint ghost of a smirk tugs at Rhyland’s handsome face.
He lifts a brow and draws me up close, a possessive brush of his hand at my hip, before straightening the soft blue cloak on my shoulders.
As he commanded, I haven’t removed it since the storm—unless you count the times he stripped it off before ravaging me.
Heat floods my cheeks at the intoxicating memories, but I stand my ground, staring up into the churning midnight clouds he levels me with.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Nymph. You’ll stay by my side until we’re safely docked. ”
A fluttering sparks in my chest. I expected a fight. I don’t know whether to be relieved or weary. Both feelings careen inside of me, but I don’t trust either.
I turn to Rowan. “You don’t have the cloak; you should go down just until it’s over.”
Her large brown eyes brim watery. “I want to stay with you. Both of you. It’s not fair that I always get sent away from the danger when I know I could help.” She looks between Sabre and I.
Sabre tugs her near, plants feathery kisses on her cheeks and lips. “I can’t be looking after you and trying to keep command, love. With any luck there'll be no fight and we’ll be sharing drinks in the marble city by sunset.”
A noise of frustration escapes my friend but, like Rhyland, she relents rather quickly. “Fine. But I expect you’ll make it up to me…in more ways than one.”
I almost blush at her implications but Sabre gives a wicked grin. “You know I will, love.”
The first mate leads her down and I turn to assess the pass ahead. We’re almost to the mouth now that the ship's picked up a considerable amount of speed. Am I imagining things, or do the statues' blank stone eyes follow us?
No. That’s just ridiculous.
We cross under their shadows and though that silly fear that Harial might slam a stone hand down on our heads crosses my mind, nothing of the sort happens.
My eyes find the waterline again, noting how it bleeds to a shade of deep indigo where it thrashes and churns against the high cliffs.
Near the hull, the sea streaks frothy and white as we slice through it.
The fractured, pale sunlight dances in fleeting patterns—here and away.
I suck in a deep breath, feel Rhyland’s hand at my hip, steadying me.
“This is insane,” I say it quietly so that only he can hear.
His gaze cuts back to the pursuing ships.
They’ve gathered speed, too, just as we hoped they would.
The Morningstar hangs back though, while two others plow ahead after us.
I don’t know which is which, and it really doesn’t matter, seeing as how they’ll hopefully be destroyed by the serpent Searle spoke of.
I cast a dark look at the red pirate captain.
I don’t trust him, but this, it seems, is the job Rhyland’s brought him along for.
So calculating. So prepared. He’s planned this all with the utmost care.
But why doesn’t that thought calm me as it should?
Another nervous glance over my shoulder and I see the two brigs are gaining on us, their hulls low in the water.
Just ahead, the bay opens wide and hungry.
Aside from gentle lapping, I don’t notice anything strange or fantastical about it.
I’d expected some sort of indication of a magickal barrier or the hint of a sea monster, but nothing seems amiss.
The city sprawls along the bay. Ships anchored in the harbor.
The air is tepid with only a slight mist now.
Searle doesn’t hesitate. “Full speed, ye sea brats! Full speed!” he howls, and looks as though he might wrestle a disgruntled looking Tobias from the helm, despite only having one hand.
“Where is it?” I can’t help but whisper to Rhyland whose grip has only tightened on me.
“I don’t see any sign of a magickal boundary.
” The barrier around Elaris had been a shroud of mist that shimmered under the moonlight.
There’d been a sort of otherness to it. Something quite obviously magick about it, but I don’t sense anything like that here.
Rhyland scowls darkly. I know the current of his mind is well at work, calculating, assessing. “That’s why we needed him. I don’t think it’s something you can see. But Searle has an amazing memory. He’ll know where it’s at.”
I should feel reassured. I try to, but something in the pit of my stomach still curls in on itself.
We move like a wraith over the water and the two brigs follow at full speed.
Nearer and nearer until sweat clings across my brow.
Something shifts within me, a resonation burrowed deep, a primal humming that seems to vibrate out from my bones.
It’s much like the feeling that overtook me when I was thrown overboard during the storm—an echo of it.
An awareness, as though the sea itself has turned sentient, its currents and depths whispering something I can’t quite make out.
Rhlyand’s gaze flickers down to me, as if maybe he can hear it, too, but that doesn’t make sense. How could he? My fingers grip tight to both him and the railing, and then Searle shouts, “Hard to port!” floundering the feeling altogether.
The order is shouted across the ship. Searle uses his good hand to help Tobias spin the ship wheel with all his might.
The Nightingale heels sharply with an ominous creaking sound.
The wind screams through the rigging as he executes the turn and our weight is thrown to the side so hard I would’ve stumbled without Rhyland holding me up.
I fear for a heart pounding moment that we’ll tip over entirely and spill into the sea.
More groaning. The masts all tip down toward the glass surface.
“brACE THE YARDS!” Searle bellows.
Quickly, the sails are adjusted by well-practiced hands, maneuvered and drawn in such a way to catch the wind at an angle.
The black sheets billow out and we’re brought upright and jerked forward, sailing out of the way of the small ships behind us who are taken largely off guard.
They don’t have time to slow, or turn, or do much of anything but barrel over the water where I can only hope the boundary lies.
Harsh silence seeps over us. The Nightingale settles, slowing as distracted eyes wait and watch to see if the proclaimed sea serpent will rise from the fathoms to devour the ships.
The ships that have finally slowed, that are trying to maneuver and catch the wind we’ve stolen to rush southward.
Some confused shouts punctuate the air. I turn back to see if the Morningstar has decided to pursue after all but she holds her position at the far mouth of the pass.
A thrill shoots up my spine. A quiver of fear. Nothing happens. Not even a ripple on the glassy surface. Was Searle wrong? Has the boundary shifted? Is this all some ruse like I expected it might be?