17. Adelina
Adelina
My lungs tighten. “No,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
Lysa steps closer, lantern light softening the sharpness of her face. “You don’t have to go in yet. Breathe first.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I can’t be shut in there.” My heart races in my chest.
Oren glances toward the hatch, then back at me. His usual irritation gone. “Girl, I’m not fond of it either, but that compartment is the difference between soldiers seeing you and soldiers not seeing you.”
I know that. Knowing does not make my body obey.
The hold tilts, though the boat has barely moved. The darkness under the boards seems to widen, becoming the tunnel beneath my chamber, becoming the hidden space beneath blankets, becoming every closed door I have ever stood behind because someone else decided where I belonged.
Lysa lowers her voice. “Look at me.”
I do.
“Once you’re inside, I’ll set the illusion.
You’ll see a little light through the charm glass here.
” She points to a thumb-sized piece of smoky crystal fixed along one side of the compartment.
“You’ll hear us. You won’t be sealed without air.
If you tap twice, I’ll hear it. If you tap three times, I’ll open it if opening won’t get you killed or captured. ”
If opening won’t get me killed or captured.
I almost laugh again, but this time it sounds closer to breaking.
Oren sighs, then crouches stiffly beside the compartment. “I’ll be above you most of the crossing.” He scowls. “Not because I care,” he adds.
“Of course not.” Lysa rolls her eyes.
“If you panic and kick a hole through this boat, I’ll be very put out.”
Somehow, that helps just a little.
I kneel and lower myself into the hidden space before courage can drain away completely.
The compartment is lined with rough blankets and smells faintly of cedar beneath the cargo stink.
It’s not comfortable, but it’s not bare wood.
Someone thought of that. Someone knew a hidden girl might need softness in a place built for fear.
My eyes burn.
Lysa waits until I am settled on my side, knees bent, cloak wrapped tight around me. “Ready?”
No.
“Yes,” I murmur.
She lowers the first plank. Darkness folds over half of me. The second plank follows. Then the third. The last thing I see is Oren’s scarred face looking down at me, grim and unwillingly gentle.
“Quiet as the grave now, Princess.”
The final board closes. I’m alone in the dark.
For several breaths, I hear only myself.
Then Lysa murmurs words above me, soft and flowing, and the air over the boards shivers.
The smoky charm glass near my face glows faintly, giving me a narrow, warped view of the cargo hold above, just enough to remind me the world still exists.
The boat begins to move.
At first, the motion is almost gentle, a slow rocking that makes the foul smell of onions and fish roll through the compartment in waves.
Then we leave the shelter of the cove, and the sea catches us properly.
The boat rises, drops, and my stomach follows a moment too late.
Wood creaks around me. Water slaps the hull.
Men shout above deck, their words muffled by planks and cargo.
I press one hand over my mouth and breathe through my nose, which is a terrible mistake because of the onions. Time stops making sense. I count anyway.
One hundred.
Then another.
Then another.
My mother’s necklace rests warm against my skin, and I hold it through my tunic like an anchor.
Somewhere beyond the boards, Oren swears at the wind, the tide, a rope, and someone named Pell who apparently has the hands of a drunk goat.
Lysa answers him once with a curse sharp enough that even through the boards I understand Oren is not the only one with a colorful vocabulary.
The boat rocks harder.
I close my eyes and think of the Sea Temple. Of white stone rising above dark water. Of sacred law older than Varek’s crown, older than Kaedryn’s contract, older than every hand that has tried to turn me into something useful.
I’m so close.
The thought is dangerous.
Hope is dangerous. I let myself hold only a piece of it, though.
Then the boat slows. Every sound above me changes. The rhythm of footsteps shifts. Voices lower.
Oren’s voice comes muffled through the boards, rough and annoyed. “What now?”
Another voice answers. Sharper. Formal. Northern.
My body goes cold, and once again, my heart thunders in my chest.
“By order of King Varek of Dravaryn, all vessels crossing this channel are subject to search.”
No, no, no!
The boat bumps against something, maybe another hull, maybe a patrol skiff. Boots hit the deck above. Too many. Heavy. Armored. The sound travels through the planks into my bones.
Lysa’s illusion holds. I know because nothing opens. No one shouts that they found a hidden compartment. No blade punches through the boards.
Footsteps come down the ladder into the hold.
I see distorted shapes through the charm glass. Boots. Dark cloaks. The edge of a sword. A lantern swinging, light bending strangely where the illusion covers me.
“What’s with the salt on the rail?” one soldier questions above me.
Oren grunts. “Manners.”
“For who?”
“Anyone with sense enough not to ask. But if you want to risk the ire of the sea, go right ahead,” Oren replies.
“Cargo?” another soldier asks.
“Well it ain’t rubies and gold,” Oren snaps snarkily.
“Don’t test my patience, old man. What cargo do you carry?” the soldier growls.
Oren answers with weary disgust. “Salt fish, lamp oil, dried kelp, spoiled onions, and three barrels of pickled gull eggs if you’re in the mood to ruin your whole damn night.”
Someone coughs.
“Open them.”
“With pleasure.” Oren chuckles.
Barrels scrape. A lid comes loose. Someone swears.
Oren says, “Careful. Those onions have more bite than you do.”
“Shut your mouth, old man!”
“You lot boarded my boat. I could be on my merry way. And the longer you hold me, the longer this garbage rots and stinks up the seas.”
The soldier walks closer, right above me. The planks creak. The illusion does not ripple, or if it does, I can’t see it through the smoky glass. But I feel him there, a weight overhead, a threat with boots and breath and the power to end everything.
The soldier crouches. His lantern lowers.
If I breathe, he will hear me. If I move, he will see me. If the illusion flickers, he will drag me from this compartment and return me to Varek before the sun rises.
Light spills across the cargo directly above my face, bent by Lysa’s magic into the shape of shadowed planks and stacked crates. Through the charm glass, his face warps close enough that I see one pale eye, the line of his jaw, and frost melting from the edge of his hood.
He frowns. He sees something. He has to see something.
My heart slams so hard I’m sure the boards move with it or the soldier will hear.
He reaches down. His gloved hand passes over the illusion, fingers dragging through air that should be wood. The magic holds, but the smoky glass flares faintly.
The soldier pauses. “What is this?” he mutters.
Oren’s boots appear at the edge of my vision. “That’s a crate.”
“I know what a crate is!”
“Then why the hell did you ask?”
The soldier shifts his weight. The boards above my shoulder press down by the smallest fraction.
I bite the inside of my cheek until pain cuts through the panic. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. The soldier’s frown loosens. His gaze slides away from the spot where I lie.
I almost sob.
“What do you see?” another soldier asks.
The soldier above me stands. “Nothing.”
“You wound me,” Oren says.
“Search the rear.”
More footsteps pound against the planks. More crates move. A barrel rolls hard enough to strike the wall near my feet, and I flinch before freezing once more. One of the soldiers laughs at the smell of the onions until he gags. Another complains that the whole boat should be burned on principle.
Oren tells him he is welcome to swim home. For one terrifying moment, I think the soldier will hit him.
Then someone from above shouts, “Clear?”
The man in the hold answers, “Clear.”
Boots climb the ladder. The boat rocks as the patrol leaves.
Still, I do not breathe. Not until the sounds fade, not until the bell rings again, not until Oren comes down the ladder and stands over the hidden compartment.
“Princess,” he says quietly. “You can breathe now.”
The first breath hurts so badly it tears a sound from my throat.
A few minutes pass before the boards lifts and light spills in, dim and golden and impossible. Lysa looks down at me, pale with strain, sweat shining at her temples from holding the illusion. Oren’s scarred face appears beside hers.
“Well,” he says. “That was unpleasant.”
A laugh breaks out of me, sounding more like a sob before I can take a breath and calm myself.
Lysa reaches down and helps me sit up. My whole body shakes so violently I can barely push myself onto my elbows. Oren looks away, giving me privacy, though there is nowhere private in the hold.
“They almost found me,” I whisper.
“Yes,” Lysa says. “But almost is not found.”
Oren grunts. “And onions remain undefeated.”
I laugh again, and this time Lysa laughs too, breathless and shaky, before she presses a hand over her mouth like she cannot believe any of us are making noise after what just happened.
Oren lets us have exactly three seconds. Then he points at the compartment. “Back in.”
My laughter dies. “What?”
“We’re not across yet.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to because if another patrol comes and finds you sitting on a crate having a nice little breakdown, I’ll be forced to say I’ve never seen you before, which no one will believe because you look like a haunted snowdrop.”
Lysa elbows him.
“What?” he grumbles. “She does.”
For some odd reason, I like this old man. Aside from the fact that he is risking his livelihood and likely his life, his bluntness leaves no room for the kind of fear that grows in silence. He is rough, but not cruel, something I have little experience with when it comes to men.
I climb back into the compartment. This time, when the boards close above me, I keep one hand wrapped around my necklace and one pressed against the blanket beneath my cheek.
I breathe.
The rest of the crossing passes in broken pieces.
Waves. Wood. Oren’s curses. Lysa humming under her breath to steady the illusion.
The necklace warm against my palm. I sleep for a few minutes and wake terrified, certain I have missed the moment soldiers found us.
But there are no soldiers. Only the sea, the waves slapping against the hull of the boat, and the stubborn determination of people refusing to let me be taken.
I feel the moment we pass the kingdom lines. The bitter cold of Dravaryn fades and warms. The air changes almost instantly. A warm humidity that makes the compartment I’m in almost suffocating replaces the frost. Still, I remain where I am.
When the boat finally slows again, it feels different. The motion softens. The water changes from open surge to shore break. Voices above grow quieter, more focused. Ropes slide. Wood knocks gently against stone.
Then Oren opens the compartment. “Out,” he says. “And welcome to Maralis, assuming you don’t fall off my boat and drown before setting foot on it.”
Time seems to pause.
Maralis.
The western kingdom.
I made it across the Celestial Sea.
Lysa helps me sit up, then climb out. My legs tremble when my boots touch the hold floor, but they hold. The healing stays true. My foot does not betray me.
Above deck, dawn is beginning. The world is painted in blue-gray and pearl, the sky just starting to lighten over dark water.
The boat rests in a hidden cove smaller than the one we left, surrounded by black rocks and wind-carved cliffs.
Beyond them, the land rises green and gray instead of white, softer than Dravaryn, wilder in a different way.
The air smells of salt, wet stone, and something floral I cannot name.
I step onto the shore. For one moment, I simply stand there. My boots touch the western kingdom. For the first time in my life, I am in another kingdom.
Not sanctuary or safety yet. But I’m closer than I have ever been.
Behind me, the Celestial Sea rolls against the rocks, vast and dark and holy beneath the waking sky. Ahead, a narrow path climbs from the cove toward windswept hills and, beyond them, the road that will lead south to the Sea Temple.
South.
I only have to go south.
Oren presses a small pack into my hands. “Food, water, cloak, knife. Don’t flash coin unless you want every thief and desperate bastard within ten miles to smell royal blood.”
“Thank you,” I say.
He scowls. “Don’t thank me. I hate gratitude before breakfast.”
Lysa smiles and adjusts the hood around my face.
“Follow the path until it splits near the standing stones. Take the lower trail, not the upper. The upper looks safer, which means it is watched. At dusk, you should reach a shrine house with a green door. If the door is open, keep walking. If it’s closed, knock once and say Nara sent you south with the tide. ”
I repeat it back to her.
She nods. “Good.”
“You’re not going with me?”
Oren glances toward the sea. “We need to leave before the tide makes liars of us.”
I look at the boat, then at the path.
Another leaving.
Another door closing behind me.
Lysa touches my shoulder once, gently. “You are close.”
My throat tightens. “Yes.”
The Sea Temple waits somewhere south along the sacred shore, white stone and ancient law, a place where my brother’s crown can’t reach me if I can only get there in time.
A place where I can give up the title they used to bind me.
A place where I might finally belong to no one.
I turn from the cove before I can think too hard about everyone behind me. Freya. Hedda. Nara. Oren and Lysa. All the people standing between me and the men chasing me.
The path climbs steeply, and by the time I reach the first bend, the boat is already pulling away from shore, its dark shape slipping back into mist and morning.
I stand alone on the western coast. The wind pulls at my hood. My mother’s necklace rests warm against my throat.
And for the first time since I left the castle, the way forward is clear.
South.
To the Sea Temple.
To sanctuary.
I tighten my grip on the pack and start walking.