Chapter 35 Shadows on the Salt Wind
The mask of piety crumbles before the gaze of the true believer. Only the heart laid bare escapes the wrath of the Hush.
Time wanes and gradually my body begins to wake. It starts with the twitching of the pinky on my left hand. A spasm in my foot. The flicker of my tongue behind my teeth, and shuddering, ragged breaths.
Sweats gathered over the whole of me—that godsdamned coal stove is practically shriveling the air.
With narrow focus, I begin to wiggle my toes and attempt to flex my fingers.
It's slow work, painful after being stuck in one position for so long, even on a soft bed. Pins and needles shred my hands. Impatience seeps through me, tangling in my stomach like a layer of thorns. This is taking forever. Who knows how long the Mad Queen’s dinner will last, how soon Rhyland and Sabre and whoever else went with will return.
At that point hopes of escaping quickly dwindle from improbable to impossible.
I grit my teeth hard. Fucking move.
A drunk, head rushing sensation overtakes me when I manage to sit up. The bed sways precariously and I grip the edge of it, seething when the clarity settles in.
That fucking pirate. How dare he.
Nettled groans slip from my mouth as I fight my way onto unsteady legs and stagger around the cabin like a fawn fresh from its mother.
Overhead, the lantern sways in time with the rocking of the harbored ship and I think I may vomit.
Bile coats the rear of my throat but nothing comes up and after a moment of repetitive dry swallowing, I lumber over to a bucket of freshwater in the corner, heave it up by the rough frayed rope handle, and slosh it maliciously within the small coal stove.
The orange embers hiss out dying breaths. Steaming smoke billows around me and I wear it for a moment as a victory shroud. The pungent smell of smoldered flame burns in my nose and I wave a hand in front of my face, shooing it back and coughing.
Why was he keeping it so damn hot anyway?
“Good riddance.” The word comes out garbled and slurred, thick around the taste of smoke and lingering bile.
I toss the empty bucket aside and step toward the pile of spilled blankets, noting how my spasming muscles have quieted to slight quivers now.
It’s easier to control my movements. I lower myself onto the foot of the swinging bed, watching the smoke clear.
My chin drops into my open palm, propped at the elbow on my thigh, and I glare at the small stove.
Why was he tending to it so tediously? The question keeps butting against me like a cat seeking affection.
The days have been sweltering, the nights frigid, but on a ship with limited resources it just wouldn’t make sense to keep it burning in the heat of the afternoons and evenings.
Yet, he did without pause. Rhyland isn’t wasteful. There must be a reason.
I rise again, only to kneel a few steps from the stove so I can peek into the covered metal basin, slitted with an opening large enough to push coal chips through and maybe a hand, if it’s small.
Something within glints and my heart stutters a beat.
There’s no way…he wouldn’t leave it here, would he?
The metal stove is a far cry from cooled, but I shove my palm inside anyway, ignoring the burning pain that springs to life.
I guess my skin is only immune to the everflame, not man made heat.
My fingers graze ashes and clumps of rough coal until they bump something smooth, its edges cold to the touch.
I grasp it and shimmy my hand back before wrenching it free.
A cool, clefted fragment of obsidian rests in my palm.
Embedded within it, a brilliant sapphire that hums with raw energy.
I've no idea which power this gem holds.
The ruby in the piece from the cave had been as much a surprise to me as any, bolstering my magick the way it did.
Feeding me life when I was near death. I need to be careful with this one; it could be anything.
Destruction. Death. The gods are twisted creatures.
Tentatively, I pocket the shard then cast a look at the door.
Who’s guarding it? Briggs? Reave? The grey haired twins?
Whoever it is, Rhyland must be confident they can restrain me and the pirate is rarely wrong.
Blunt force doesn’t seem the best option, or the most discrete.
I drift to the window, shove the drapes aside and peer out over the water, deep cerulean giving way to dusk as the shadows begin to lay claim over it.
In earnest, I try to get the lock unlatched and wrench the thing open but it doesn’t budge.
Maybe sealed with a spell? Or maybe I’m just not strong enough.
The glass could be pried from the frame.
I’m sure something in here would work to do it, but then it would be a drop into the deep harbor.
There’s a stale sort of hope that maybe, maybe my magick would kick in and save me from drowning again, but it’s a steep gamble.
Worth Máma’s life? Absolutely. Yet my heart is still a savage beat within me at the idea.
My gaze runs over the captain's quarters and the gears in my mind begin a careful turning. I need a plan, at least a loose one. Pacing seems like a good place to start. I allow myself a few moments, garnering my strength and balance back. Testing the taut muscle that cords my arms and legs. Stable enough, I decide. There’s a velvet sack in the corner that I imagine—like the teacups and fine mirror—was taken during one claim of spoils or another.
Smooth and silky under my touch with threaded gold rope, the sack is a bit of a flashy eyesore, but it will work.
I spill its contents on the desk—a handful of silver eyrir, a strung pearl necklace— and start working to refill it with a set of clothes from my trunk, balled tight.
I don’t own much else but don’t hesitate to skim a few silver eyrir off the top I’m sure my husband won’t miss.
He owes me a safe trip back to Helgate, afterall.
Now comes the trickiest part. Rowan. I can’t leave her again.
I can’t run without her like I did those years ago from Blossom House.
She’s coming with—tooth and nail. Iron and rose.
I’ll claw my way over the ocean floor, drag myself onto the sand beach and slip back onto the ship.
How I’ll evade the crew is a problem for later me.
The me that somehow manages to survive the plunge and the seawater.
After all that, if Rowan comes willingly, we can make for the city streets.
Hide and then figure out a way to enter the games.
No, I don’t have riches, but I’d wager the Mad Queen is a betting woman.
That if I made a deal with her, a gamble with the crown piece I hold, she’ll let me participate.
Gods, it’s such a laughable, stupid plan. But it’s all I have. Rhyland lied, twisted and used me. His promise to help my móeir is likely more of the same bullshit. Sometimes, a woman has to take matters into her own hands.
An echo of doubt gilds the corners of my mind. Will Rowan choose me over Sabre? Is going back for her worth the risk when she might resist? It’s a dark, tepid thought.
Trust no one.
But fuck, I don’t care. I can’t leave her, I won’t. She came back for me on the cove. Took a beating, a bullet. Sacrificed her freedom and everything she’d worked for with the Sisters of Silence.
I lift the hand mirror, prepared to use the pointed silver handle as a means to crack the window, slowly, chip by chip, when two resounding thuds sound on the other side of the door. I freeze, and even the wild beat of my heart seems to cease.
There’s a heavy pause and then the burnished doorknob rattles quietly.
I lower onto my knees. Drop the mirror and crawl for the bed, flinging myself back on it to lie as still as I was when Sabre hit me with her sigil spell.
A faint clicking and the wood hinges creak.
Someone steps inside, two sets of feet, one soft, one heavy.
My eyes that were crammed shut fling open.
The curiosity is too much but it’s quickly sated when someone hovers over me, her long red braid slipping off her shoulder to hang an inch or so above my nose.
“Vale?” Rowan whispers.
I sit up fast, head going woozy and dark for it, to blink at her in utter disbelief.
“Rowan?”
The figure behind her shifts. They’re both cloaked in heavy green capes with hoods deep enough to shadow most of their faces, but he pulls it back, revealing sandy brown hair and clear green eyes.
“Cyprian? What in the four realms is going on?”
Cyprian rushes forward and urges me to my feet.
“There’s no time to explain, but I remember once I promised to help you.
From the beginning, I didn’t agree with his plans for you.
Once Rowan told me you’d been locked in here I knew we needed to act before he gets his hands on the Queen's crown piece. Before there’s no stopping him.
” From his cloak pocket, he withdraws a small vile, uncorks it and presses it to my lips.
“Drink this, it will help with the effects of Sabre’s rune casting. ”
The bitter liquid washes over my tongue, acidic and tingling. I swallow it down with little choice in the matter.
Rowan smooths back some hair from my head, nodding along with Cyprian’s words, a look of fleeting pain crossing her face.
“He’s right, Vale. Rhyland’s been using you this whole time.
Sabre all but spelled it out for me. I—I thought I loved her, but she’s just as bad as he is.
These gods, godlings—whatever—they don’t have the capacity to care about anything. Or anyone.”
I cringe at the fluttering, the awareness that spreads over the rune burned into my chest. She doesn’t know, of course. I haven’t told her what I am. Clearly Rhyland has kept the little detail to himself as well if Cyprian wasn’t informed.