Chapter 41
FORTY-ONE
“SHOULD WE WAKE THE OTHERS?” THIA ASKED THRAN.
He stared at the horizon from his perch near the mast. “I’d say let them sleep. I doubt we’ll have many more moments of peace before the end.”
He was probably right, but Thia didn’t want to think about that. She surveyed Oskaren, sleeping at the bow. A frown marred her sculpted face, and she tossed and turned under her cloak. Thia wondered what she was dreaming about.
“I know the boy gave you a hard time,” Thran said. “I thought you handled it well.”
Her cheeks flushed, and she inspected the horizon, clutching the Eye of Syrrene absent-mindedly in her palm.
“Do you think I’m being foolish?” She didn’t know why she asked.
She didn’t need his approval. Maybe it was the memory of the quiet acceptance he’d shown when he’d first noticed the shift between her and Oskaren.
Maybe she just wanted someone to understand, to see what she did in the other girl. To trust her choices.
Thran was quiet for a moment. “If there’s anything life has taught me,” he said, “it is that time is precious. We are guaranteed nothing. Life is loss. So no, I do not think it foolish to love, no matter what may come of it.”
Tears pricked Thia’s eyes. “Thank you.” He would have been a good father, she thought, had the king not taken the chance from him.
His voice turned a bit gruff. “No need for that, lass.” He cleared his throat. “What will you do first, once you are home?”
“I can’t think about that,” she admitted. There were too many unknowns: the battle against the witch, the journey back to the Tower, how she would say goodbye to her newfound friends.
“If by some chance, the king doesn’t help you, you’ll always have a home here with us.”
Thia started. “If he—do you think that’s possible?”
Thran rubbed his beard. “If he could so easily walk between realms, why would his lust for conquest have stopped with us?”
Thran was wrong. He had to be. Callista was an expert in magic, and she thought the king could do it.
“I spent some time speaking to Lythia during the festival,” Thran told her. “I asked her what the Losrohir know of the Mage King, with their foresight and long lives. We have legends, of course, but the fact is, until he began his conquest a little over seventy years ago, his origins are elusive.”
“What did she say?”
“The Losrohir are as nescient as we are. They can see how the threads of time will weave, but only if they know where to look. The first they learned of the Mage King was seventy-five years ago, when the earth cried out at the birth of his shadowling army. Shortly after, they began their retreat.”
“Surely someone powerful enough to scare the Losrohir into hiding can send me home,” Thia protested. “Why do you doubt it?”
Thran sighed. “I don’t know that I do. I’m just thinking, lass. Apologies.”
“You said his eyes reminded you of something,” she recalled.
“Aye. Birth records I found, in my time as a scribe. Of a babe with that same gaze, white ringed with black.”
She examined him. “What are you saying? That child is the king?”
He pursed his lips. “That would make him over two hundred years old. And that child showed no signs of magic; Wordlung manifests young. Though I suppose mages could be different. We know so little of them.”
That had to be it. If there was one thing clear in all of this, it was the king’s power.
“Come now, don’t fret,” Thran continued, in response to her expression. “I read too much into things—burden of the trade, I suppose.” He gave an encouraging smile. “Why don’t you get some more sleep? I don’t mind having another turn.”
“Aren’t you tired?” she asked. If she were honest, she craved the escape from her own overactive mind. She had to trust Callista’s knowledge of Caradoc, and the king’s own promise, or she would never get through the coming fight.
“I don’t think I’d be able to catch a wink if I tried.”
She watched him a moment more. “If you’re sure.”
He nodded.
“Alright.” She had just closed her eyes when she added, “Thran?”
“Aye, lass?”
“I’m glad you’re here.” She meant it.
It was so long before he answered that she almost thought he hadn’t heard. Then he said, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” For all he had begged Pagdan not to send him away with her, for all that she knew he feared what awaited them come day, Thia believed him.
When Thia next awakened, it was to black cliffs. Her companions were already up, facing the horizon in silence.
She stood to join them, nearly toppling at the surge of ocean waves much rougher than the meandering River of Dreams. “Is that—”
“The Isle of Bones,” Oskaren greeted her, face blank. “We’re nearly there.”
Thia took a position on the rail beside Dess.
It was a glorious day, golden rays glinting off the white caps at odds with the anxiety gnawing on her belly.
Hours passed; the cliffs grew bigger as they approached, revealing themselves to be a collection of small islands, volcanic by their barren and sharp edges.
As the ship passed between the first two and carried on, Thia realized they must be headed for the largest, cradled in the center.
Waves ate at the base of the stone that surrounded them, years of erosion creating strange arches and pools. No plants grew here, but Thia saw what appeared to be gnawed bones discarded in the pockets of rock as they sailed by. Grimacing, she kept her sight mostly skyward.
The sun was setting as they glided up to the largest of the islands, its rocky face blocking out the horizon.
After days in forests alive with the chatter of birds, the rustling of leaves, and the scurry of ground creatures, it was eerily quiet, save for the whistle of wind on rock.
Oskaren instructed the ship to dock, a task that proved more difficult than anticipated.
There was nowhere shallow enough for them to step easily out of the boat, and nowhere flat enough to disembark without the possibility of an uneven landing.
Finally, they settled for a small inlet divided by a craggy outcropping.
It was better than most in that their ship was shielded from view from all angles except directly above, but they were faced with a twelve-foot climb up a vertical rock face to access the island itself.
They disembarked, deciding to tackle the climb now and search for shelter.
Not wanting to give away their presence on the island, they thought to avoid fire, which meant that if they set out for the witch immediately, they’d be traipsing around the uneven terrain in the dark.
And, as Oskaren reminded them, though no one was arguing, witches could see well at night, so they’d be putting themselves at an even greater disadvantage.
With a plan in place, they approached the short cliff face.
Thia eyed it warily, never having rock climbed in her life.
Dess went first, finding foot and finger holds she couldn’t even see, racing to the top in a handful of seconds.
Thran went next; he was a little slower, his hands slipping once before he too was over.
Thia took longer, grip aching as she struggled to hold her weight with her fingertips.
But then Oskaren was there, palm on the small of her back, thigh acting as a foothold to boost her up.
Dess reached down and hauled her the remaining feet, and Oskaren followed with ease shortly after.
Thia turned, wanting to thank her, only to catch the girl’s shoulder as she pointedly moved away, brushing her palm over her thigh where Thia’s boot had rested.
Atop the rock, the wind was much harsher. It tore at their clothes, whipping tendrils of Thia’s hair in front of her face. In the distance, the terrain rose into a small mountain that towered over the middle of the island. Thia hoped the witch’s lair was not on top of it.
“It’s inside,” Oskaren said softly, and Thia realized what she was seeing. A large archway, carved roughly from the stone like it had been blasted there.
“Thank god.”
“Keep your voice down,” the girl said, though not unkindly.
They set out across the rocky terrain, hugging the sea instead of venturing toward the archway, until it was out of view.
True to its name, piles of bones were littered across the landscape, shiny enough that Thia wondered if they had been licked clean.
It seemed Xercae wasn’t picky; there were bones in a variety of sizes from an indiscriminatory number of species, including avian, aquatic, and land-dwelling.
Occasional puffs of smoke rose in the distance, and Thia wondered if whatever volcano had created this monstrosity was still active, or if it was witch’s fire.
After an hour or so, the sun truly sank, making the journey far more treacherous.
They picked their way slowly, finally settling on a shallow alcove in the rock.
It was deceptively long, covered by an overhang that would shelter them from the sky above, though the opening faced the sea, so they were exposed to the wind.
With few words, they set out their bedrolls, preparing for a miserable night.
Thran took first watch; from the look on his face, Thia wondered if he thought he wouldn’t be able to sleep at all anyway.
She settled into her roll, grateful for its thickness, though it was not quite enough to keep the chatter from her teeth.
Mavrel nested near her neck, burrowing down into her warmth.
Dess slept at her back, Oskaren her front.
The girl faced away from her, but as Thia closed her eyes, she heard her turn.
It would be too easy to lean forward and wrap her arms around her, breathing her hazelnut warmth, and spend the night entangled in each other like they had in the Mirror of Souls.
She didn’t. And when she opened her eyes, Oskaren shut hers, expelling a deep sigh of sleep that Thia was fairly sure was only pretend.