Chapter Twenty-Eight
Once again, the instant the door opens, I’m met with biting cold wind and flurries of snow.
While the wind doesn’t cut through my armor, the few parts of me left exposed sting in seconds.
My fingers, my cheeks, nose, and brow—it leaves me wanting to pull my hood over my eyes and rely on Ryc’s guidance to reach the viewing deck.
I’ll last eleven minutes if only to spite Eve.
With Ryc’s help, I descend the ice-slicked stairs with little difficulty. The fact they’ve become so laden in the short time we spent in Connak’s closet is rather disconcerting. Will the sails and masts hold under such weather?
As I swing my eyes upward, the dark green canvases remain taut, pulling against their stays. They catch winds created by the number of bundled sailors standing in various baskets perched high above.
Wind innates, I realize.
The Captain propels via water, and his crew propels via wind. The perfect outfitting for any seafaring venture.
The ease at which they use magic bores envious little holes in my chest and I force myself to look away. A group of sailors emerge from a staircase leading below deck, flashing smiles from beneath their fur-lined hoods as they pass.
“The Captain mentioned Nyluma,” I send the thought through our bond and Ryc peeks down at me. “Is he one of Rowen’s fleet?”
“No,” Ryc answers, turning his face forward. “Our good Captain is a freelancing capitalist. If you ask him, he’s a citizen of the sea.”
A pirate then.
The whole of Connak’s demeanor makes more sense.
“Originally he’s from Kyrsal,” Ryc adds.
The capital city of Aeros…
He’s one of Darin’s people then.
“As it stands, approaching Illa Ysari is considered an act of aggression against the High Council.” Ryc’s hand tightens around mine. “Were we to bring any kind of sworn fleet, it would be an act of war.”
“So you paid to have us smuggled to the island?”
At this, Ryc laughs. His amusement carries through the golden rope, burying itself in my chest.
“Yes,” he replies, flashing me a grin.
The next set of stairs is taller than the last and following in Ryc’s wake, I ascend. Slipping my hand from his in favor of the railing, the wind grows as I crest the last step. My eyes water, but even through the cutting wind and snow, the scene before me holds me wide-eyed.
Unlike the calm over Ollora, these waters are a powerful tempest.
Swirling snow falls upon darkened, dancing waves, swallowed the moment they meet. The grayed sky, the hazy visibility, the lack of real color… it all reminds me of the veil.
Approaching the ice-coated rail at the end of the deck, I take hold, steadying myself as I continue to stare.
At the same time, I’m reminded of the hells.
There’s nothing.
Nothing visible ahead.
It’s barren and treacherous and filled with more shadow than light. How many lives are at risk here today, I wonder. Perhaps Connak’s price wasn’t enough after all.
In the distance, the storm appears to worsen. The snow becoming a stark, white wall.
No… not snow.
Fog.
And we’re aimed right for it.
?????????????
The entire world changed the moment the ship pierced the white wall. The wind and snow fell away, seemingly absorbed by the fog. The ship stopped rocking and the howling in my ears stopped, having crossed into calmer waters and creeping silence.
None of Connak’s crew dared speak.
Their whistles, their shouts, their laughs, their casting… it all ceased—the wild beauty of the realm becoming more haunting in nature. And whether it was out of fear or reverence, I couldn’t tell. But I followed their lead and remained quiet—despite the rolling nausea raging on in my stomach.
As if I didn’t have enough reason to never sail again, I’ve discovered demons aren’t immune to seasickness. We’d been out on the open water for no more than thirty minutes before the unease set in. Driven by sheer stubbornness, I remained upon the deck.
A mistake.
Now sitting with my back against the railing, I rest my head upon my crossed arms, braced by pitched knees and simply breathe. Hood and cowl down, I take long, deep breaths, fighting against the strong urge to vomit.
Why was I never warned about this until after it claimed me?
It doesn’t help my skin buzzes.
Like the last few seconds before a lightning strike. A feverish pitch with no release. This fog isn’t natural. It’s old magic. Aether.
And gods I’ve never felt so much of it.
It tingles along my skin and down my spine, filling my lungs with every breath. Whatever Illa Ysari is, it’s steeped in Aether. It no longer feels like the living realm.
It feels like the veil.
I lift my head, heaving a sigh, and Ryc’s hand finds my back.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, concerned.
“I’ll be better once my feet set upon solid ground,” I answer, adjusting my lowered cowl. “A small part of me wondered if sailing was anything like flying. It’s not.”
Ryc laughs, granting me a flash of his fangs. His hood is pulled low over his face, hiding his eyes, yet with his cowl lowered, I’m reminded of the shrouded Ryc I met months ago. The one where I’d often catch glimpses of a handsome smile hidden from the rest of the world.
The sight squeezes my heart.
His hand moves in slow circles along my back. “No,” he replies, smiling. “It’s not.”
I pause, losing myself in his smile.
I’ve never seen Ryc take flight. The closest would be the night I leapt from the balcony. I bet he’s as graceful in air as he is on ground. That’s something I’d like to see.
Ryc steals his smile from my lingering stare, his face darting to his right, toward the top of the viewing deck stairs. Connak emerges from the fog, appearing as if it ferried him. His eyes land upon me and he opens his coat as he approaches.
“Here,” he says, crouching before Ryc and me.
Drawing his hand from his pocket, he offers a crumpled bit of paper, prying it open with his fingers. Inside lies sliced pieces of some kind of root. A faint, sweet and earthy smell wafts to my nose, reminding me of the tea Cora used to favor.
“Ginger root,” he says. “Chew, but don’t swallow. Should help with the nausea.”
It’s a kindness I wouldn’t expect from the sordid captain.
“Th-thank you,” I stammer, reaching for a small piece.
“Glad to be of service,” he replies with a grin, revealing his pointed canines. He crushes the bundle in his hand before tucking it back into his pocket as he settles on his haunches. “We should be dockside in ten, fifteen minutes.”
Working my teeth over the tough root I ask, “Do you sail to Illa Ysari often, Captain?”
Is what we’re doing notable?
Or is this simply no different than day-to-day?
“I wouldn’t say often,” he answers, his brow furrowing slightly with thought. “But this isn’t my first visit if that’s what you’re asking. Though this is the first time we’ve sailed through such a storm to reach it. Your partner didn’t want to wait until the storm blew over.”
No. Ryc wouldn’t have.
I wouldn’t have.
Whatever lies in those archives, I hope what I need is counted among it. Otherwise this journey—enduring this nausea—will be for naught. And I’m not ready to deliberate what steps I’ll have to take following.
“Has this place always been this way?” I give an ambiguous wave of my wrist to the fog.
Connak glances around, nodding. “Aye,” he says.
“Since the fall of the last High Rulers ‘bout fifteen, nearly sixteen hundred years ago. Without them, Aether runs wild. There’s no one to channel it. It does what it wants, unchecked. If you didn’t already know, innate use is ill-advised here. Aether tends to smother it.”
That’s why the wind casters stopped.
My face pinches with confusion. “Does the Aether harm?”
Connak shakes his head. “No, but it messes with how an innate manifests—I’ve heard about a number of kings coming here to see if they’re able to reach their second innate despite the empty thrones.”
“And does it work?” Ryc asks, sounding both amused and curious.
Connak shrugs. “They never tell that part of the story.”
“If the wind casters aren’t propelling us, how are we sailing?” I ask, lifting my eyes to the limp sails overhead.
“The Aether,” Connak answers. “All who pass through the fog are brought to the island. The place is desperate for a conduit and summons all who venture near.”
The island searches for someone capable of sitting on its throne?
Gods, I wonder what it’s going to make of Ryc and me.
Neither of us fully fae, yet somehow destined to become conduits for faekind.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the stories about Illa Ysari,” Connak says, pulling me from my thoughts with a roguish grin. “While they’re simply stories, this place is many things to many people. In truth, it’s a reminder of what happens when the gods don’t get their way.”
The captain reaches, rapping a knuckle against the wooden rail beside my head three times.
If they’re stories, why the superstition?
“Hope you folk find what you’re looking for quickly,” he says as he pushes himself upright. “Couldn’t pay me enough to spend a night in those halls.”
With a quick dip of his chin, he retreats from the deck, the fog swirling about him until he vanishes.
With little hesitation, my eyes swing to Ryc’s.
“What stories?” I demand more than ask.
He smirks. “I knew that question was coming.”
Curling an arm around my shoulders, he draws me into him. It’s an embrace that’s become incredibly familiar these last few months.
“I believe he’s referring to the tales fae tell their children to keep them obedient,” he says with a small laugh. “People disappearing for years at a time and returning home changed. Sightings of a ghostly woman flinging herself from an eastern balcony into the sea on nights with a full moon.”
I level a flat glare in Ryc’s direction. “Ghosts?”
Many fantastical and dangerous things exist in this realm. Ghosts are not among them.
He chuckles. “I’m confident the amount of truth in such stories is granular at best.”