Chapter Twenty-Four
Out in the harbor, Perri was cavorting between the boats. Seagulls and winged cats were circling above him, catching the fish that he flung into the air.
“Perri!” Marin cried.
The sea serpent trumpeted at them.
“I thought you…” She couldn’t finish that sentence.
Her throat felt clogged, and her cheeks were wet.
Around her, villagers were staring at her, but she didn’t care.
He’d come back! Why? He’d found his family.
She didn’t see any other serpents in the harbor with him.
He must have left them. For me? Shoving the spellbook at Dax, Marin ran to the end of the dock.
Perri swam up to the end and lifted his head out of the water. He touched his snout to her head. She reached her arms wide and wrapped them around his face. His sea-blue eyes swirled.
“What about your family?” she asked him.
He splashed her with a fin.
“Told you,” Ree said smugly behind her. “We’re his family.”
Marin didn’t know what to say, but she felt herself smiling so wide that her cheeks hurt. She didn’t even mind that the seawater was freezing and now dripping down her neck. She laughed out loud.
She heard Dax murmur, “He came back. I didn’t … I didn’t know anyone did that.” He then added, equally softly, “Except this crew. You came for me, when the city burned. And now Perri…” Louder, he said, “It’s good to see you again, my friend.”
Marin stroked the ridge over Perri’s swirling eye. He purred.
With a snort at Marin, Perri dove beneath the dock. He came up on the opposite side of her sailboat. He trilled a question and then began to sing the opening notes of Ree’s song.
“Yay!” Ree said. “Marin, can we?”
She laughed. “Sure.”
He tumbled onto the boat and scrambled up to the top of the mast. With no hesitation, no preamble, and no request for donations, Ree launched into his song about the blue-blue sea.
She and Dax joined in on the chorus, adding the harmony.
Cheerfully dancing in the waters around the dock, Perri waited until his moment and then caroled his notes so loudly that they traveled through the cobblestone streets, drawing out the islanders until the dock was packed.
Marin, though, didn’t look at any of them. Her eyes were only on Perri, Dax, and Ree. Her crew. When had she let all of them into her heart so deeply? And how badly was it going to hurt when one of them left her for good?
She tried not to dwell on it and instead sang as purely and proudly as she could.
With freshly mended sails and a basket full of cinnamon buns, they set off shortly after dawn.
Marin knew the route. From Caltrey, if they sailed full speed and nonstop through two days and one night, they’d reach Alyssium by the next nightfall.
But she didn’t plan to sail full speed. She didn’t love the idea of arriving in the city after sundown.
She had no idea what to expect. Fire? Flood? Famine?
Or worse, everything would be fine, and then Dax would return to the conservatory.
She’d just gotten Perri back; she wasn’t ready to lose Dax.
She’d tried so hard not to get attached to anyone and had failed entirely.
Hadn’t she learned anything? Apparently not.
She snuck a glance at Dax, who was fiddling with his tri-lute while seated by the prow.
He’d taken off his coat in the sunshine, and his arms were exposed.
His purple hair was braided, a practical kind of braid to keep it from tangling in the wind.
He looked as if he belonged here, on Silver, with her.
He doesn’t. She knew that, at least in her head.
He was supposed to be in the conservatory, composing masterpieces that would live on for eternity, not entertaining villagers dockside with a ragtag chorus of untrained …
whatever we are. He had a grand destiny, a purpose chosen for him, blah blah blah.
Regardless of that, he deserved more than what she could offer him on her boat—days and days on the sea, magic storms that would toss them who-knows-where, and only her, a shrub, and a serpent for company.
She just wasn’t ready for him to leave yet. Nearly losing Perri had been enough of a blow.
Dax looked up at her and smiled.
I can’t keep him here.
This wasn’t supposed to be his life. It was hers. Her choice. Her dream. Her boat. She wondered if he realized that returning to Alyssium meant returning home. He hadn’t said a word about it, but of course he had to know that this was it: their last sail together.
“Ree, want to handle the sails?” Marin asked.
“Really? You think I’m ready?” Ree squeaked. He scurried across the deck and plopped next to her. Rocking back and forth, he murmured to himself, “I’m a sailor. I can do this. I’m a sailor. I can do this…”
She politely pretended she couldn’t hear the murmuring over the wind. “Sure, you’re ready. You’ve seen me do it. Just keep an eye on the wind.” She pointed to one of the lines. “What’s this?”
“Mainsail sheet,” he answered promptly.
She pointed at another line.
“Jib sheet.”
The wind was steady, and she’d be only a few feet away. “You’ll do great.”
Ree steadied himself, and she ducked into the cabin and returned with a crate for him to stand on. On the crate, if he extended his branches, he could reach the helm and the sheets, though not both simultaneously.
She crossed the deck to the bow and sat next to Dax.
After taking off her boots, she dangled her feet off the front of the boat.
Spray spattered her feet and ankles, dampening the hem of her pants, as they cut through the water.
In the distance, she spotted the island of Faysa, which lay east of Caltrey, followed by Charik south of that—they were still well beyond the more populated islands, but at least these had familiar names, which meant they were at last truly on their way back to Alyssium.
“What do you love most about the conservatory?”
“All the music,” he said immediately. “You wake, there’s music—the bells that welcome the dawn.
You eat breakfast, there’s someone warming up their voice or their instrument.
Then it’s classes, either teaching them or taking them.
Practice, of course. This time of year, everyone should be preparing for the winter solstice concert …
It’s one of the grandest of the year. You should see it!
Or more accurately, hear it. Hundreds of voices!
Hundreds of instruments! It begins with the oldest music known to us—drumbeats that mimic a heartbeat, and then it journeys through the history of music on the Crescent Islands.
It’s a five-day celebration, and on the fifth day, that’s when the new pieces are debuted. ”
“Your opus,” Marin said.
“It would have been this solstice.”
It still could be, if the conservatory stood, if Alyssium hadn’t fallen. They’d find out soon. She didn’t say that out loud. Instead, she said, “It sounds wonderful.”
“I used to think it was the best place in the universe,” Dax said.
She noticed the past tense and tried not to read anything into it.
“Until I was about twelve, I thought everyone felt the same way I did—that we were the lucky ones, to grow up with our gift encouraged, surrounded by music, taught by grandmasters, praised for our every success. I liked the clarity: Play well, you’re valued.
Don’t play well, don’t work, don’t practice, don’t strive …
There was another child prodigy, two years older than me.
Keerik. He was an even better musician than me.
He could look at an instrument and see how to turn its flaws into beauty.
And his voice—it was like Perri’s but from a human throat.
He had this incredible range…” Dax sighed, his eyes bright with memory.
“When I was younger, I’d be paired with him for duets all the time, and then when I turned twelve, nothing.
He’d never pop up on my schedule. Never saw him at practice or in classes. ”
“Voice change?” she guessed.
“That’s what the professors said. What everyone said.
We were told that he was embarrassed and not to ask him about it.
So no one did, except for me, because I couldn’t imagine not singing, even if I sounded terrible.
I went to his room one night—I brought him his dinner because he refused to come to the dining hall. ”
Behind her, Ree let out a little squeak as the sail shimmied. She deliberately didn’t turn around. A few seconds later, the sail filled with air again. “What did he say? Keerik.”
“He laughed, and then he said there was nothing wrong with his voice. He just didn’t want to sing anymore.
He’d had enough music. He wasn’t going to sing or play or practice or perform.
He was done.” Absently, Dax strummed on the tri-lute, and then his fingers plucked out an errant melody, one that matched the lap of the waves on the hull as they sailed along.
“I didn’t believe him, mainly because I couldn’t understand.
How can you be done with something as fundamental as music?
Obviously something was wrong. I begged him to tell me what.
Truth is: I was terrified it would happen to me, that I’d suddenly lose everything that made me special, that made the professors fawn over me, that allowed me to call the conservatory home.
But he proved it. He sang for me, just for me.
One last song, he said. And his voice had changed, and it was even more extraordinary than it was before, with a depth to his register that was as deep as the sea.
” He fell silent, looking out over the water.
“What happened to him?” Marin asked. She could imagine a slew of horrible things.
“That night, after he sang for me, he left the conservatory,” Dax said. “I didn’t know it was possible to leave, to want to leave, and it made me start to think about what was out there.”
“A lot of water,” Marin said.