Chapter Five
PEDR
Gulls cawed Pedr awake.
He rose into consciousness painfully, aware of a relentless sun, the rocking of a ship, and the squawk of circling birds. His hand rose to his forehead, the heel rubbing his eyes. Expecting pain, he braced himself.
None followed.
Dazed, he moved his hand and opened one eye. Indigo arced wide overhead, so deeply blue his eyes ached. His skin should be cooked crispy, but it didn’t hurt. He ran his fingers along his arm. No blisters, no tingles.
Pedr sat up so quickly he vaulted to his feet, caught himself on the mast, rebounded, and straightened. Each movement felt easy, flowing with a finesse that didn’t quite make sense. He meant to sit up, not hurl himself upright.
Blinking, he attempted to remember what passed and had no difficulty recalling every detail. Every single detail. From the lightning-like streak forming in the ship, to the blaze of it through his body, to the final slam of his heart.
Palm to his chest, he sucked in a welling breath. His lungs expanded, but nothing came from it. No dizzying rush, no responsive beat of his heart.
“Shite,” he whispered.
Was he dead?
Pedr spun in a steady circle to encompass the ship. Vivid detail met his studious eyes. From this close, he studied wood grains, fine hairs shedding from tense rope, stitches in the sails. Had color been this vibrant before?
The ocean so pungently saline?
Nothing on the ship changed, only him. No char marks from whatever power slammed into him. Where was Havard’s body? The old man had died, hadn’t he? Thinking back, Pedr wasn’t sure. At the time, he hadn’t focused on Havard.
“What,” Pedr muttered, “just happened?”
He felt . . . fine. Better than fine. Like a force waiting for an outlet. A power anticipating trouble. Something unknown glided within him like loose marbles. When he turned his attention there, panic swelled alongside the ability.
Was this a joke?
“Who did this?” he shouted, hands fisting. The tendons along his arms pulled taut as he bellowed, “Havard! Havard, you bastid! What have you done to me?”
The lonely cry rippled away.
Pedr shoved a hand through his hair and reached for the ropes. The moment he touched the closest one, a burst of color exploded from his fingertips and raced into the sails. They shifted, expanding under a gust of wind. He recoiled.
Hold on . . . the same thing happened when Havard touched the ropes. The persnickety, strange old man sat on his chair, balancing on two back legs, and commandeered the entire ship by plucking individual ropes.
Pedr clapped thrice, banged a foot, and shouted nonsense.
The efforts yielded nothing. But, no. That hadn’t been the right combination.
He clapped, stomped, and whistled three notes.
Torches burst to life nearby. He stared at his hands, his feet, the torches with growing discomfort.
A small, terrified corner of his suddenly massive brain woke up.
He stumbled, spine slammed into the mast. His skin connected with the wood and shot prisms of light into the sails a second time.
Get out of here, he thought. I have to get out of here.
As if he’d issued a command, the ship lurched. Unfurling sails rolled, the ropes moving with intentional and studious purpose, as if a hand drew them down. Not a squeaky moment, or wrongful plummet. No bo’sun in the sheets, racing from one spot to another like a monkey.
Did the ship obey his command?
Arms held out to the side, Pedr surveyed the boat with new eyes.
Havard didn’t have a crew. He had the arcane—and who didn’t keep arcane gadgets on the sea?
—but Havard’s had been more powerful than most. No matter how much Pedr tried to justify the mighty arcane that sped lights into the sails and did the work of many crew members, he couldn’t.
He’d been in shock when he first arrived, ignoring the obvious.
Nearly dying on Lubba’s ship, then in the wide sea.
He hadn’t truly considered that he rode a vessel that made no sense, captained by a man who was now far less straightforward.
The edge of understanding nudged Pedr from a corner of his mind, but he closed it down.
No. He couldn’t open himself up to understanding new things yet.
He had to figure out how his ship picked up speed without wind.
How they somehow headed the direction that would eventually take them where Pedr most wanted to go: Erevast island.
He thought of the basics. The things he knew for certain. He was on a ship, in the wide sea, and something had changed. But the world hadn’t changed—just him. At least . . . he thought so. But he didn’t know . . .
So he’d go somewhere familiar, orient himself. Stock up on supplies. Yes, supplies. Water he didn’t thirst for. Food he didn’t crave.
Normal things.
Things he understood.
Once he sorted through all the basic problems, he’d tackle the next level. Like why his stomach wasn’t gnawing with hunger, his skin was no longer welted with blisters, nor his throat blazing with thirst.
From there, he’d answer the brightest burning question.
What had he become?