Chapter Nine
PEDR
Pedr paced his cabin and muttered, “Shite, shite, shite,” over and over under his breath. If his heart still worked, it would have flopped around out of sheer fear. Panic. Logic.
Arcanist.
Arcanist.
Why hadn’t he thought of it before?
The sun sank, nighttime arose. He heard Mila shuffling around, creaking open the hatch, and heading down the ladder.
He also heard the protesting boards, an opening door, a closing door.
He shouldn’t have heard it. Nor smelled her perfume.
Or counted the number of books cluttering these shelves in less than a second.
No human could hear sounds so far, smell things so confusing. What exotic scent did she torture him with? Why did he care so much? Spinning on his heel, he paced the other way. A hand raked through his hair, nearly tugging the strands free.
Arcanist.
Was he an Arcanist? Of what? He had to drudge his deepest memories. The ones that were more shimmer than substance. The ideas of memories from his childhood, from his father telling him stories before he went to sleep.
There were . . . three Arcanists? Sun, sky, sea.
No, no. Sky, land, and sea. What did folktales from his youth insist that an Arcanist did?
Pedr spun near the bed and stopped in his tracks.
Laying on top, near the pillow, was the discarded diary.
Havard gave it to him, and what did he say when giving it to him?
The sea! It knows you. Knew you the moment you swam. It’s why I appeared, naturally.
A fever crept up Pedr in a flush as the realization drove home. He dragged his hand down his face.
Arcanist.
Of the sea.
The shutters above the bed sprang open, admitting a gust of wind that sent him wheeling. He caught himself, leaned against it. A voice came from the depths.
Brace yourself, Pedr.
Something slammed into him, knocking him out of this place and into another. He didn’t fear being dead—wasn’t he already?—nor anything happening to the ship. Both seemed a foregone conclusion, in some ways. The hit felt familiar, yet new.
Nothingness rang in undulating loops around him when he opened his eyes. No sea. No ship. No soul. Only an empty space with vaguely white walls hidden by milky fog. A feminine voice whispered in his ear.
What is your name?
He whipped around. The feminine voice was rich and thick. Luscious, in a way. He wanted to curl inside of it. Aside from Mila and Havard, it was the first friendly voice he’d heard in . . . ages.
“Pedr.”
He didn’t know why he replied so immediately, and why he didn’t ask something else instead. There was so much to learn, and no one to ask.
I am Himmel.
“Himmel?”
It’s good to meet you, Pedr.
“Havard said your name.”
He did.
“I . . . I didn’t know he referenced a person. Who are you?”
Sorrow slipped into her voice. Havard was trying to tell you to seek me, and that I would help you understand. He didn’t have much time left. We never know when our souls will be called back, even as Arcanists.
When she confirmed the suspicion on which he’d hovered, Pedr couldn’t form words. He didn’t know what to say. He had too many questions to touch the truth directly. Instead, he would stare at it and comprehend the edges.
Raspily, he asked, “Where am I?”
The Otherworld. A place only arcane beings can go, and usually not often. It is . . . a quiet place.
“Did I die?”
No.
“Then what is this place for?”
A hint of amusement lightened her voice. You know? I’m not sure. Onskar has never explained where it is, just that it is. Typically, a place to access each other. I’m sure it has some purpose. I just don’t know what it is.
Onskar.
He filed that name in the rubbish pile of all-the-things-to-figure-out-later.
More gently, she inquired, Do you know what an Arcanist is, Pedr? Arcanists don’t have much to do with humans these days.
“They use arcane within their domains. I always believed they were a myth, though.”
All folklore is rooted in some truth. An Arcanist is a being derived from and able to command the arcane. Your life force is no longer tied to your body, in other words. You have a soul, she quickly tacked on, but it is not where your being draws power.
“You’re telling me I draw life from the arcane?”
Yes. Your body is inseparable from the arcane. Souls are, of course, a different type of matter entirely. The Seat of your Soul is no longer in your body, you see. It is elsewhere. Probably in a reliquary, but that’s supposition.
“Where is my soul?”
I don’t know.
Pedr looked down, expanded his fist into long fingers over his chest. None of this sat well. The fragmenting information was difficult to comprehend and follow. He asked the only question that arose in the quiet.
“Who is Onskar?”
The Arcanist of Souls.
He gazed around, still finding nothing. “So there are four Arcanists, not three?”
She seemed pleased with his understanding.
Yes.
“How long have you been the Arcanist of the Sky?”
Hundreds of years.
“And in all that time, you don’t know where your soul belongs?”
Oh, she said breezily, I know where my soul belongs. With me, as yours belongs with you. I just don’t know where the Seat of my Soul is located and the difference is significant. Humans have reliquaries that their souls occupy after their life is over. Arcanists?
A shrug finished her thought.
A ready rage swelled inside of him.
“I didn’t ask to become an Arcanist.”
Compassion softened her reply.
I know.
“I don’t want it.”
I understand.
He wanted to go home, wrap his arms around Britt and Malcolm, and sail on a yawl that was now at the bottom of the sea, thanks to Lubba. This entire adventure began because he sought his parents, not . . . the arcane.
Wind twirled around him like a friendly cape, and he realized Himmel was the wind. He could feel her in it. The sensation on his skin grounded him in the moment. There had been a gust after Havard said her name, hadn’t there?
“You’re the Arcanist of Sky, not the Arcanist of Wind?”
Correct.
Air struggled down his airway, into lungs that didn’t need to expand. He forced it down, because he should. He should require air. He shouldn’t hear words like Arcanist and sky and arcane. He should be riding a ship and not worrying about his own death in a place called the Otherworld.
Himmel lightly inquired, Pedr?
“What?”
You are going to be all right.
Her words, spoken with such care, startled him out of the downward plunge. He hesitated, hand still pressed to his chest. Himmel hadn’t appeared, she spoke only in the wind.
Quietly, he asked, “Am I?”
It’s overwhelming now, but I have been where you are, and eventually it will be okay. I’m here with you, and I’ll see you through it.
Pedr closed his eyes, grateful to block out the light.
He could feel his body better with his eyes closed.
Could sense the calmness beneath. No more pumping blood.
No more need. Only . . . arcane. It swished like his blood.
That beat in time like his heart. It filled him up as thoroughly.
He felt the presence of it in his throat, catching.
This is enough revelation for now, Himmel said crisply, like a parent.
Awareness and instinct will continue to reveal a little at a time, and this is wisdom.
There is no rushing through this process.
When you open your eyes, you will return to the ship.
I recommend you stay there for the time being.
Avoid humans, if you can. You need . . .
you need a chance to understand what’s happened.
“What has happened, Himmel?” he asked, needing to hear her say it, and so grateful for her steady presence.
You, Pedr, are the Arcanist of the Sea.
Hours later, Pedr lay with one hand behind his head and stared at the stars. His shoulder blades pressed against the deck, and the wind whistled overhead. He considered the sky, an approaching storm sweeping to the south, the slapping ocean.
Oh, the sea.
He longed to swim. To feel the cool waters lapping his shoulders, soothing and certain. Would swimming feel different as an Arcanist? He feared the answer. Until now, everything felt better in the ocean.
Except for this pang in his chest. The missing. The hollow. The shape of his discomfort resembled his sister and brother. He thought of them.
“Soon,” he whispered. “I’ll see you again. I’m halfway there. Didn’t I tell you I’d be free? I always figure it out, Britt. Malcolm. I’ll return.”
Memories of the last time were a bitter flood.
Britt’s red-rimmed eyes as he strode down the dock, burdened by the news of their parents’ deaths.
Malcolm had gripped his young hands into livid fists.
Shite, but he wished there had been less years between them.
That Britt wasn’t a child—only nine—when she lost both of her parents.
He, the revered elder brother, had to turn his back and work off Mother’s hidden debts. He’d never tell Britt. The secret would fester in his soul, probably created from the same frozen edge Mother shared with him.
The apple never fell far, did it?
Malcolm, so hungry for a leader, yearned to escape Aunt Gertrude and stay with Pedr. Instead, Pedr had left him behind and he now endured the torture of living with Gertrude. The most brutal form of agony imaginable.
Pedr closed his eyes.
“Soon,” he promised.
The stars recorded it.