Chapter 13
With the battle concluded and their captain incapacitated, the Maelstrom crew united to pick up the pieces. The medic, Gareth, spent several hours with Lord Lexington in his cabin, tending to his wounds while, to Amaya’s surprise, Ozzie took the lead outside.
Mouse explained that the cook’s relic, Silverspoon, allowed him to imbue his food with mild healing properties. It didn’t magically cure every ailment and injury, but it helped hasten the body’s natural healing processes.
That explained how the wounds Amaya sustained from her altercation with Corsair had disappeared so quickly. The lacerations from the automaton, however, were much more severe.
Mouse also offered to stitch up Amaya’s arm, claiming to have learned how from his late older brother, Lyle. The sensation of thread pulling through skin was nauseating, but the wound closed neatly with the help of Ozzie’s signature stew.
Amaya’s mother was treated with similar relics during her illness.
It had been a highly specialized, exceedingly expensive treatment plan that extended her life years beyond the diagnosis.
Relics were costly in Veridian, and most were Class Ones with limited usage, so one had to pay handsomely for the energy expenditure.
It was almost unthinkable for Amaya to watch her own comparatively minor injuries treated in such a way. On one hand, it seemed terribly unjust that pirates should have such easy access to these things. On the other, she was grateful for the way Silverspoon soothed her pain.
When Ford and Crowe regained consciousness a couple hours apart, they wholeheartedly ignored the medic’s orders to rest and got to work stacking the bodies of Maelstrom and Stormrunner crew members alike on a makeshift pyre built from scrap metal.
Casualties were few on the Maelstrom side, but not nonexistent.
Amaya watched wordlessly from a distant corner, numb, unable to grasp why so many were allowed to die for the Skystone. For what was inside the Skyvault. For her.
She did, however, come to a stark realization: she couldn’t go home.
No—she wouldn’t.
The forces that had come for her in Sorrento, that came for her today, would return.
When they did, she didn’t want to be anywhere near her home.
Whether Lexington chose to keep her prisoner or decided she wasn’t worth the trouble and let her go in Vaelstead, she’d stay in the sky until the threat of Graven was neutralized.
How she’d do that, she had no idea.
At midnight, the crew gathered together to mourn their losses and, in the captain’s absence, Sebastian set the pyre aflame. Smoke curled into the clouds as the flames danced, consuming the empty husks left behind by the lives lost today.
The smell was unbearable and the smoke stung her eyes, but only Amaya seemed bothered.
The others stood around the fire like mournful statues, moving only when someone stepped up to speak about the departed and their sacrifice.
Sebastian filled the captain’s shoes well, finding something genuine and thoughtful to say about each of their lost crewmates. Amaya counted six in total.
Tristan was a new crew member who had only been with the Maelstrom for four months. According to Sebastian, he never complained even when assigned the most undesirable tasks.
Huxley was well-loved for his colorful shanties and distinctive belly laugh that kept morale high on the long days.
George had joined the Maelstrom crew under the former captain’s command, wanting nothing more than to see the sky cities return to their golden age of Aether and industry so his grandchildren could live a better life than he had.
Boaz was a young man who sent his entire share from every raid back to his family in Zenith after they’d been displaced by a Veridian smuggler run gone wrong.
Amaya noticed Mouse’s shoulders shake at the mention of a young man named Curly from Erebar—he must have been a friend.
Kit, the final fallen crew member, was described as an outcast from his community in Forsyth—a small town in southern Veridian—after becoming a political activist against the relic black market.
He believed the smugglers were thieves like Camden had, making it impossible for the poorest sky cities to rebuild.
But he had a sweetheart back home he’d hoped to return to someday, once he’d made a real difference up here.
Cognitive dissonance tugged at Amaya’s chest as she listened to each story, the humanity of them seeping into her understanding of piracy and painting a different picture than the one she’d been shown her entire life.
It hurt more than it should, hearing about these men she’d never spoken to.
If she’d locked eyes with any of them that first day in the mess, she’d never known it.
And their stories had ended here, today, because she was on their ship.
Mentally, Amaya added Camden’s name to the list and, in her obscurity, allowed a handful of tears to fall.
More stories were shared over drinks and muted chatter after the main ceremony, with the occasional toast. Amaya lingered in the shadows, waiting for someone to realize she was supposed to be in the brig. But no one remembered, or if they did, they didn’t care.
When the fire burned out hours later, it left a pile of ash upon the metal platform. Each pirate took a fistful and released it over the side of the ship, murmuring unintelligible sendoffs. The procession continued until the deck was clear and the crew dispersed, quiet and solemn.
Amaya followed suit, returning to the cabin she’d occupied previously. She washed up, carefully tracing the soap around her stitches, and changed into the dressing gown from Serena.
It wasn’t until she’d prepared for bed that she realized her blue dress, the one soaked in Camden’s blood, had been taken just as Serena had promised. The realization overwhelmed her; everything that tethered her to the ground was well and truly gone.
No, not everything.
Suddenly frantic, Amaya dug through the discarded clothes she’d been wearing and recovered her mother’s photo.
It was blessedly undamaged after today’s violence, save for the existing wear around the border.
She ran her fingers along the weathered edges, wishing more than ever that her mother was here to help her make sense of all this and tell her what to do. She’d always known what to do.
Exhaustion and despair dragged Amaya down onto the bed, where she held the small photo to her chest and finally let herself fall apart.
Amaya spent most of the next day in bed, drifting in and out of consciousness and fighting an existential crisis.
Her body yearned for sleep, but rest didn’t come easily.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw visions of the vile automaton, or Camden and Corsair, or Lord Lexington and his macabre sword.
Her mother’s photo rested on the bedside table. Amaya’s constant clutching had resulted in creases marring Marjorie Sinclair’s beautiful face, and she wouldn’t risk damaging it any more.
Mouse left some food outside her door in the morning, and later that evening she answered a knock to find only a mug of hot chocolate—from Serena.
The following morning, Amaya’s bones and heart ached a little less. She snipped the stitches from her arm with some shears she’d found in the drawers and traced the raised pink lines.
Her skin had knit back together quickly, but she wasn’t sure the scar would go away. The emotional one wouldn’t, so it was only fitting she had something to show for it.
Today, she had a plan. If she was going to stay and make it her mission to help deal with Graven, she needed to learn as much as possible about relics, Pearce, and the seven Sky Lords.
That made Edmund her target.
Amaya dressed in a ruffled orchid skirt from Serena and a dove gray top, once again securing the ensemble with a black leather bodice adorned with copper embroidery. She’d need some clothes that fit soon, but at least these were clean.
Wanting to keep her mother’s photo close, she tucked it into the pocket of her skirt once more before braving the mess.
The dining hall was quieter than the other day. A somber mood hung in the air, a dark cloud hovering over everyone. The captain was nowhere to be seen. Amaya meandered over to the counter and shyly approached Ozzie.
“Miss Sinclair,” the cook greeted her warmly. His shirt was spotted with grease, his face flushed from the kitchen’s heat. “Out of the slammer, are we?”
“It would seem so.”
Ozzie grinned and handed her a bowl of warm cinnamon oats, a banana, and a cup of coffee. Just the sight made her stomach growl.
“Eat up. It’ll help you feel better,” he said.
Amaya nodded in thanks and scanned the room, spotting an empty seat at a table with Sebastian and Edmund, who was partially obscured by stacks of books just like she’d hoped.
“Good morning,” she said, approaching the table and sitting down next to Sebastian.
“Morning,” Edmund said, not looking up from his book. He reminded her a little of Grace.
“How’s the arm?” Sebastian asked.
Amaya glanced down at the scar. “Better.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“How’s . . .” Amaya hesitated. “How’s the captain?”
“He’ll be all right,” Sebastian said, taking a sip of his coffee. He cleared his throat, as if what he wanted to say next pained him. “Thank you for . . . for what you did.”
Amaya looked down at her food. In truth, her heroic act was a blur. She only remembered realizing someone needed to do something, and thinking maybe she could.
“He needed help,” she said finally, offering a small shrug and digging into her oats. “Everyone else was busy. Is he awake?”
Amaya wasn’t sure if she hoped he was or not. She might lose her mind if he sent her to the brig again.
“Yeah. He needs rest, though. I practically had to chain him to his bed,” Sebastian said.