Chapter 4
Amaya spent two days in the brig of the Bitterwind, which she learned was a smaller ship in Lord Graven’s fleet.
Ridge and Corsair paid her four more visits and insisted she tell them how the locket worked with increasing ferocity.
Corsair squeezed her arm, letting his claws pierce her skin, Ridge slammed her against the back wall, and last time, Corsair fired a bullet past her head.
The sound alone triggered a memory of Camden’s death and brought her to tears.
Amaya knew the locket had originally belonged to her great-grandmother, Lucy. But the only additional insight she could offer was that the coordinates of her family’s lake house were engraved beneath the photo opposite the stone. When she’d shared that, they instantly lost interest.
“We already knew that,” was Corsair’s only comment.
The weight of Amaya’s ignorance dragged her down.
She lay on her back and stared up at the cracks in the ceiling, fantasizing about a bath and clean clothes. Her curly hair was wild and dirty, and her entire body itched.
Despite having nothing to do but talk to Phineus, she was also exhausted. Probably because she could only fall asleep down here when her body left her no choice.
By now, Amaya had attuned her ear to the thunder of footsteps overhead and the particular rhythm of Ridge and Corsair’s gaits. She was somewhat sure it was morning, but they hadn’t come down yet.
“Are you sure it’s not a relic?” Phineus asked for the hundredth time. He was lying down as well, with his feet kicked up against the wall. They’d been trying to discern exactly what Corsair and Ridge expected Amaya to reveal.
“Well, no,” Amaya admitted. They hadn’t explicitly called it a relic, but the implication was there. “I guess not. But wouldn’t I know if it was?”
“Not necessarily. Has it ever been tested for an Aether signature?”
“No . . . ?”
“Well, there you have it. When the Maelstrom gets here, we can talk to Edmund, our relic artificer. He can test it. He’s really good—he made my relic.”
Amaya knew little about relic artificers other than the obvious: they crafted relics by imbuing physical objects with Aether, an atmospheric energy source. Relics couldn’t be crafted on land, allowing the sky cities to charge exorbitant prices for them.
The trade imbalance had led to the Relic War eighty-five years ago, and the rise of the Sky Lords, who were equipped with the most powerful relics ever created.
Today’s artificers couldn’t make anything like that now, though. Not even close. But relics were still expensive, hence the raids . . . and Camden’s controversial political stance. He’d been convinced Veridian was not a victim of extortion, but the villain taking advantage.
Amaya had never known what to think about that.
“Even if it is a relic, I still don’t know what it does,” she said, letting out a sigh.
“Edmund should be able to help with that, too. My guess is it’s a Class Three. Its ability must have lasted for quite some time, which eliminates One. It doesn’t have a sister, as far as we know, so not a Two. And definitely not a Four.”
Wearing a Class Three relic around her neck for so many years was an alarming notion. Why hadn’t anyone figured it out previously?
“You really have your own relic?” Amaya asked, turning her head toward Phineus’s cell. He swung into a sitting position and nodded, his face glowing with pride.
“It’s called Portal. It’s just a One, but it’s this little pen you can use to draw gateways that connect one place to another. It’s finicky, though, and the portals can only be like five feet apart.”
“Sounds useful for thieving,” Amaya muttered.
“Which is exactly why it’s mine,” Phineus said, grinning. “Ridge took it, but I’ll get it back when—”
“When the Maelstrom comes. I know.”
If Amaya had a coin for every time he’d said that, she’d have enough to buy her own airship. Phineus’s confidence that his crew would come for him was endearing, but patience was not a virtue Amaya possessed.
Just when she’d started hoping her captors had given up and wouldn’t visit her today, Ridge’s heavy footsteps sounded from above. Amaya’s stomach flipped, wondering what they’d try this time. She pulled herself up when the hatch opened and the hulking pirate descended the stairs.
This time, though, he carried a jingling set of keys.
Amaya watched in disbelief as Ridge stopped at her cell and fumbled with the keys. He slid one into the rusted lock and turned it, generating a screech.
Amaya stepped back. “What are you doing?”
“You’re coming with me, missy.”
“Have we reached Aereasead?” Amaya thought it had only been two days, not five, but her current perception of time wasn’t reliable.
“No.”
The cell door swung open and Ridge stepped inside. Amaya took a second step back, but he grabbed her and spun her around, crushing her against the wall as he yanked her arms behind her back.
“Watch it,” Amaya said, wrestling with the too-tight silver shackles he snapped around her wrists.
“Just in case you get any ideas.” He shoved her out of the cell. “Follow.”
Amaya glanced at Phineus, who looked on in trepidation as Ridge escorted her from the brig and onto the main deck.
The full light of the sky blinded her after being locked up, but the rush of fresh air was nothing short of heavenly. Amaya inhaled deeply as she found her footing.
Ridge stomped ahead, his footfalls making the floor vibrate beneath her. She followed, but her steps slowed when her eyes adjusted to the light and she could properly assess her surroundings.
The main deck was massive, with huge masts and sails turned sideways, allowing them to slice through the air. From here, she could see the tips of wings protruding from the sides.
Because she was flying.
Amaya had known this, of course, but she hadn’t been able to comprehend the truth of it from below deck.
A crisp wind rushed through her tangled hair and shook her shoulders—a poignant reminder that she was thousands of feet above ground.
Puffy white clouds surrounded the ship, appearing so close she would have tried to grab a fistful of fluff if her hands weren’t shackled.
Behind the clouds was an endless cerulean sky.
Flying was incredible. Or, perhaps it would be if she were here under different circumstances.
Because when Amaya lowered her gaze, she realized just how many pirates crowded the deck.
There must have been two dozen men lined up to see her, each of them sloppy and sneering.
Ridge and Corsair were the only ones who’d come down, even to deliver food, but now everyone got to see the mysterious girl in the brig.
The pirates assaulted her with leering eyes and wolf whistles, which was when Amaya became keenly aware that she was the only woman in sight.
The men gathered around her, masking the clean air with liquor and sweat. Their heads blocked out the sky. Amaya held her chin high and curled her hands into fists to keep them from trembling, unwilling to let any of them see how frightened she was.
“She needs a new dress, Captain,” one of them said. “This one’s got blood all over it.”
“I can help with that,” another pirate jeered. Amaya gasped as grimy hands pawed at her dress, shoving the sleeves down and grabbing at the ribbon that kept it cinched at her waist.
When she stumbled, another pirate caught her in his arms. His grip was tight as he petted her hair.
“I can’t even remember the last time we had a woman on board.”
Amaya let out a whimper and squirmed, her mobility limited by the shackles.
“Get off me.” She attempted to elbow the pirate in the ribs with minimal success. He licked his lips and tightened his grip.
“Hands off!” Ridge barked, pivoting and seizing the culprit by his collar. The man’s feet lifted off the floor as Ridge ripped him away from Amaya. “Miss Sinclair is our honored guest.”
Ridge punched the man in the jaw to punctuate his point, sending him hurtling to the ground before the rest of the crew. The surrounding pirates reacted with laughs and jeers as Ridge forcefully pushed Amaya out of the horde and into a small room beneath the upper deck, where Vesper Corsair waited.
Ridge shoved her into a chair and bent to whisper in her ear.
“If you don’t cooperate, I’ll hand you over to them,” he said, nodding back to the swarm of pirates on the deck. “There’s more than one way to loosen pretty lips.”
Amaya let out a shaky breath as Ridge exited the room, closing the door behind him and leaving her alone with Corsair.
“I hope you’re ready to talk.” Corsair tapped his clawed hand on the arm of his chair.
They sat in a small study, with two chairs and a desk bolted to the floor. Various trinkets and bookshelves cluttered the room, leaving Amaya much closer to Corsair than she’d prefer.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Amaya said. Her face heated, as it did every time she laid eyes on the man who killed her best friend. “I hope you’re ready to accept that.”
“Not quite.” Corsair lifted the chain from around his neck and revealed the pendant, resting it on the desk with surprising care and clicking it open.
The black-and-white photo inside drew Amaya’s attention more than the moonstone.
Taken when Amaya was thirteen, the photograph showed her leaning her head on Marjorie Sinclair’s shoulder.
Amaya’s hair was wild and curly, her smile impish while her mother looked elegant and refined.
The tilt of her jaw was fierce, but her eyes were gentle.
It was one of the last photos of just the two of them, taken months before she’d gotten sick.
The opalescent moonstone on the other side glimmered in the dim light, a rainbow of colors oscillating in and out of view. Beautiful, to be sure. Perhaps even valuable. But not nearly as precious.
“We’re halfway to Aereasead. Lord Graven will be expecting us to have made some progress by the time we arrive. Do you know what happens to those who disappoint Lord Graven?” asked Corsair.
Amaya tore her eyes away from the photo. “He kills them?”
“Sometimes, sometimes not.” Corsair paused. “I’ll be honest with you, Amaya—he wants you alive. So I doubt your life is on the line . . . but that lovely face might be.”
He ran the smooth side of his icy metal claws across her cheek, sending chills through her body. For a moment, Corsair almost seemed to pity her.
She didn’t want to imagine the kind of torture a man like Alastor Graven was capable of.
“I had hoped to preserve the authenticity of your explanation by avoiding the lecture, but you’re just wasting our time.” Corsair rifled through some documents and spread them across the desk next to the open necklace. “What do you know about Ronan Pearce?”
Amaya rolled her eyes. “A history quiz? Really?”
“Answer the question, Miss Sinclair.”
“He’s the inventor of the airship.” She failed to see what this had to do with her and her necklace, but Ronan Pearce was as much a household name as King Oleander.
“His invention triggered the Sky Rush, introducing air travel and leading to the discovery of Aether, the creation of relics, and the establishment of the ten sky cities.”
“Smart girl. And what became of him?”
Amaya hesitated, trying to recall her history classes. “He . . . he disappeared, right?”
“Right.” Corsair regarded Amaya with cool derision. “And where do you think he went?”
“How should I know?”
Corsair growled, raking a hand through his greasy hair.
“Fine. I’ll play teacher. When Ronan Pearce returned from his sabbatical after the Relic War, he sought out his old friend and business partner, Westin Cory. They fought over a particular Class Four relic—Genesis. Do you know what Genesis does?”
“They don’t teach us about Fours. They’re heretical.”
Anything that modified the body to the extent Class Fours did undermined the Maker’s design. Or, that was the doctrine Amaya had grown up hearing. It was one more reason to abhor the Sky Lords.
“Alleged heresy aside, legend says Pearce stole Genesis from Cory and retreated to his private vault, deep within the Aether Storm.” Corsair paused. “Some say he’s still there.”
Amaya blinked, her brows pulling together. “But . . . he’d be dead. That doesn’t make sense.”
“Perhaps not to you, but Graven intends to find him.”
That didn’t make sense, either. “But the Aether Storm is—”
“Unnavigable, yes, I’m well aware. Unless one possesses Pearce’s greatest creation.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“I’m disinclined to believe you, since you’ve been wearing it for seven years.”
Corsair slid a piece of paper across the table toward Amaya. It displayed a rough design sketch for a piece of jewelry—a very over-designed, very familiar piece of jewelry.
At the bottom of a delicate chain, Amaya identified two birds flying together toward a rose. Beneath the rose was an oval pendant decorated with gears and gems.
The other half of the sketch showed the locket open, with a rendering of a stone set inside. The note next to it simply read, “Skystone.”
Not moonstone.
Amaya’s gaze slid between the locket and the sketch. He couldn’t be serious, and yet, the resemblance was uncanny.
“You think this is a Skystone?” She wasn’t familiar with that type of stone.
“The Skystone. And yes, I do. So does Lord—”
The deafening sound of a cannon firing cut Corsair off.
Its impact threw the ship sideways, forcing Corsair to brace himself on the desk and grab the necklace to keep it from falling while Amaya, unable to catch herself with her hands restrained, toppled out of her chair.
She yelped, her wrists twisting painfully as she hit the floor.
“What was that?” she groaned, trying to sit up.
Ridge burst through the study door.
“It’s the Maelstrom!” he said. “It’s Lexington!”
Corsair roared in frustration and turned, prying a painting off of the wall to access a lockbox hidden behind it. He hurriedly opened it and stashed the necklace and documents inside.
“I told you to let that boy go,” Corsair said.
“I . . .” Ridge failed to find adequate words. “I thought he was lying.”
“You’re about to pay for your idiocy with your life,” said Corsair. “Go!”
He took one last look at Amaya before following Ridge out and slamming the door shut behind him.