Chapter 24 Two Days
The Touchstone was all but flying on full sail and magik.
We sank the bones of the Nil’hellyn in the unnamed bay and immediately set out for Port Corvallan. I almost couldn’t believe a ship could make such sail, but with the boards from the Nil’hellyn, the Touchstone was a new ship. I could hear her singing to herself as we clipped across the waves.
In fact, her voice was stronger, her thoughts longer, less clipped and childlike, and I knew that was because of the Nil’hellyn. Suns, I could see the lure. Maybe she was worth losing Cable and Dion for.
The seas were rough as we sailed toward Port Corvallan and the mythical Court of Sand.
I’d heard about it from my mother. They were a colony of ironmages that had counselled courts in the Northhelm even before the abolition of the Priestlords.
They ruled on disputes concerning magik and were said to be so ruthless that even Death herself was afraid of them.
The Ship of Spells. Bilgetown. The Cloudgate. The Court of Sand. Everything that had once been myth was now my reality. Life was upside-down and leeways. It seemed that loss, however, was a constant companion, no matter how far or fast I ran.
In the evening, I assisted Echo in surgery. Fluids were building up in Fahr’s chest, and the doctor said we needed to drain it. Thanavar was there as well, watching like a school magister, hovering like a hen.
The ship rocked and creaked, and I poured sand onto the floor to prevent slippage.
We had several candles burning, and the pit was sweltering in closeness.
I didn’t know if fauns sweated, but I certainly did, and I was grateful for the strips of linen on the table to wipe my face and hands.
We had assembled a tray of instruments, some of which I recognized from my mother’s greencellar.
I watched intently as Echo picked up a thin blade and pierced a small hole between Fahr’s ribs.
Some yellow oozed out, but not enough to justify his labored breathing.
It was all I could do to keep my gruel down between the heat, the pus, and the rocking of the sea.
Echo passed me the blade.
“Trocar, please, Ensign,” he said. I handed him a long tube made of hammered tin. My mother had used one similar, though hers was fashioned from swamp reeds. “Captain, he may wake for this. Keep him steady.”
Thanavar nodded.
The doctor leaned close and slipped the tip of the trocar into the incision. With a steady hand, he slid it in.
Fahr’s eyes opened, and he struggled for breath, but Thanavar pressed his shoulders into the table.
“The leathers, Ensign, please,” said Echo.
I brought the rolled leather to Fahr’s lips.
“Bite down,” I said. “It helps.”
He glanced at me, then at the captain, then back again. He shook his head.
“Are you certain, Dev?” asked Thanavar. “No one will think you weak.”
He shook his head again but hissed as Echo moved the trocar deeper.
“Be very still,” said Echo. “I don’t want to graze your heart.”
Fahr gritted his teeth.
“Well done, Dev,” said Thanavar. “Almost over.”
The tin slid deeper, but still no fluids tapped.
“Almost…” said Echo, and he changed the angle ever so slightly. “There.”
Immediately, fluid began to drain, and I caught it in a small bucket before it hit the floor. Fahr breathed out deeply, seemed to sink into the table.
“We’re going to leave that in for a few hours,” said Echo. “So, please try not to move.”
Thanavar patted Dev’s shoulders.
“Well done, kel’yion,” he said. “Tomorrow, we make Port Corvallan. They will set you aright.”
“Don’t trade her,” the mate said, his voice thin and reedy. “Not on my account.”
“Never,” said Thanavar.
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
I knew him well enough now. He lied like the rest of us.
“Sleep,” he said. “Aro’el will fetch you some wine when you wake.”
Fahr closed his eyes, and the captain’s face fell like a shroud.
“Stay with him, Ensign,” he said. “Notify me of any change.”
“Aye, sir,” I said.
He and Echo moved to the flap of canvas that served as a door.
“That should give him another day or so,” said the faun. “But he may be too far gone even for the Court of Sand.”
“I will make it sweet,” said Thanavar. “They will not refuse.”
“Are they as terrible as it’s said?”
“They tried to recruit me once,” he said. “I refused, so they tried to kill me. I refused that as well. I am not so easy to kill.”
“They may try again.”
“Likely, but they want the Touchstone more than they want me. We can bargain.”
“Well,” said Echo, wringing his hands. “Unless we get there soon, we may not need to.”
The captain took one last look before leaving the pit. Echo nodded at me.
“Once the draining slows, pack the trocar with some linen and wrap him loosely. I’ll be back soon. Mr. Broom has a boil that’s festering, and since he’s in charge of our cannons, it’s important I tend him.”
He ducked under the flap but paused.
“Oh, and well done, Ensign. You may be no greenmage, but you are an able assistant. I’ll have a green thread for your sash in the morning.”
And he was gone.
I laid the bucket on the floor so it still caught the drips of red blood and yellow ooze. I glanced around, making sure we were alone, then stood beside the table. I reached to touch his forehead. He was hot now, and I took a deep breath, fought my damned quivering chin.
“Liar,” I said quietly, and I shuddered, stroked his brow with trembling fingers. “Such a fogging liar. So damned cocky and full of yourself. You should have been shot so many times…”
My voice caught in my throat, and my eyes stung as I held back the tears.
“Don’t you dare leave. Not now. I just can’t, not without you. The helm needs you, but now I need you, too, and it’s just not fair.”
I sobbed, choked back the waves. This was not just about Devanhan Fahr anymore.
“I was fine as a crab, as a stone, but you and your fogging ship…”
I released a deep breath.
“Fog you.”
And then another and another.
“So, I have a bargain for you,” I said. “Thanavar thinks I’m too proud, but this ship demands so much, and I don’t have the deep to give it. I’ve never asked for anything in my life, but I am asking for this. Just this one thing. So, please…”
My hands cupped his ashen face.
“Don’t die on me, Devanhan Fahr. Don’t die.
If there’s some bargain to be made with the Court of Sand, I’ll make it.
I’ll lie, or I’ll die, or I’ll do whatever they want.
I’ll give my life to the Court of Sand or the Sister Moons or the Brother Suns.
Hels, even the Admiralty itself. Just don’t die. Please, just don’t die.”
I was grateful he was asleep and heard none of it. I wasn’t sobbing but shuddering, unable to catch my breath. Such a fine man.
“I’m right here,” I said. “Fogging bastard.”
Whenever I wanted, whatever I wanted, was taken by the winds. It had always been that way, but that didn’t mean it would always be. If there was one thing I’d learned on the Ship of Spells, it was that all mages had a spin at the wheels.
Such a fine, good man. Our future king.
“Fogging Bryn’nyd.”
Finally, my breaths steadied, and I stepped away and sank to the floor against the wall.
I looked over at the book I’d brought in with me.
Legend Has It: Chronicles of Nethersea. Over the last day, I had read about the Worldrune and the Brother Suns.
I’d read about the formation of the Island InBetween when the Sister Moons had aligned and Forge had called it up from the sea.
How they had wept in joy and their tears collected as chimeric in a volcanic cauldron at the island’s very heart.
How the RuneTree had grown at the side of this volcano, rich in magik and reaching for the stars.
It was similar to the captain and Worley’s recounting but written from a Rhi’Ahr perspective, and I marveled at how history was recorded with bias in every line.
Kirianae. The Tree was called Kirianae. I’d heard the name before, from the captain on deck, from my lips in response, in my head when I stopped the cannonballs in the battle of the Dreadship. Kirianae. The name thrummed like a memory, deep in my bones.
Now, as I neared page four hundred and thirty-four, the writer Ellianthys Moonforth had introduced the order of the Priestlords.
According to this book, three Dreadmages had founded the order of the Priestlords and developed the monastery that served the Tree.
Ilyn’shar, it was called, or the House WoodRaven.
Everyone in Oversea knew about Priestlords because we’d been taught they were responsible for casting the Dreadwall.
We sang nursery rhymes about them. We formed our own “equatorus” and danced in circles, jumping up to the skies as if we were the Dreadwall.
We told tales around fires, over brews in the dark.
According to the book, the Priestlords guarded the chimeric from a monastery built into the very cauldron itself.
They recorded all the ancient spells and trained others to wield them.
Children from both helms were brought to the island, usually between the ages of eight and ten, and they spent years as acolytes, learning magik, tending the Tree, and channeling rune to the end of their days.
I knew Thanavar had been one of them. What a life to have lived.
What an honor to serve and learn with the best mages in the helms. It was a dream, I thought to myself, but magik was easy compared to dreams.
And yet, I was here, on the Ship of Spells. Perhaps Thanavar was right. Maybe the moons did have a hand in the course of my life. I was homani yet learning to wield chimeric like a Rhi’Ahr. As such, I was an entirely new creation at sail on the seas.
I turned my eyes back to the page and dug my nose deeper into the book.