Chapter Eleven
PEDR
Mila, lulled by the rocking of the ship on the calm sea, fell asleep around four in the morning underneath spangled starlight.
She lay on her side, curled on top of a blanket.
One of her arms wrapped a fluffy pillow.
Pedr wanted to offer his shoulder. She’d fit just right against his side, curled up like a kitten.
Dismissing the dream of holding her close, he lowered his eyes and lay still beside her.
The absence of a thumping heart, the melody of a human life, was a barren expanse.
He longed to hear it again. In the quiet, the extent of changes bled like a seeping wound.
Much remained to be mourned; everything had changed. He’d lost his life.
His soul.
Or was it lost?
When details threatened to wrap his throat and strangle his good sense, Mila’s hand brushed his forearm in a little twitch. She shuffled, sighed, but didn’t rouse. The trailing, tender touch sent a tremor into his still and silent heart. It spasmed, a definitive movement.
So.
He wasn’t entirely unfeeling. Or worse . . . onded. The realization gifted him with a hint of humanity, and his mental flailings eased. Mila stretched her arm, made a sound in her throat, and settled to sleep. Lucky woman.
Her steady presence gave him an anchor and someone outside of himself to be around.
Mila was a blessed slice of innocence and joy.
If he had to endure these horrible thoughts alone, maybe he’d face insanity.
Havard’s mental state might have been a result of entire nights with only his thoughts to entertain him.
The horror.
The sea calmed Pedr next. Remembering that he was an Arcanist of something—the most important something—he sought the new depth of mind that existed.
What he found awed him. Never had his thoughts run so deep, brisk.
Never had his abilities widened to chasms he hadn’t yet crossed.
Didn’t dare cross. More than he’d ever known before existed at a mere thought.
Might. Ability. The arcane reminded him of an eager puppy, leaping to attention. Seeking stabilization a third time, Pedr sought the sea.
She found him.
In his mind, a map formed. A rudimentary, hazy understanding of the sea beneath where he rode.
The ship bobbing in it, heading east-northeast in a gradual pursuit of his siblings.
Strange structures, hazy and unformed, were familiar islands.
His tense fingers eased. He knew where he was in the vast ocean.
Everything was fine.
His mind returned to his siblings, burdened by a terrifying question: would he tell them what happened to him?
Could they handle the truth? Malcolm would notice something was off, but Pedr could waylay his intelligent observations.
Britt wouldn’t. She was canny, but not yet ten.
A swim, a few hours in the sunshine, and the right kind of food, and Britt was satisfied.
He hastily stuffed the idea away. He wouldn’t reveal it to them, nor Gertrude, until he felt Malcolm and Britt could handle it. The implications were too gargantuan to touch, and they lacked time and real-world experience.
Mila pulled Pedr back to the moment when she stirred, flopped onto her back, and then her side. She rolled onto the cooler planks, gave a delicate shiver. Thank the sea for her, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts before he plunged into regret and worry.
Mila, the little vixen.
He couldn’t fathom a woman so bold, yet mild, meeting the world on her own. Who let her wander the sea alone and na?ve? He’d pull a protective drape around her and keep her out of sight.
Unable to deny himself the luxury, Pedr unwound his arm, wrapped it around her waist, and pulled her closer. Her spine almost touched him.
Almost.
Near his warmth, the little tremor ceased. She sighed, loosening.
He stacked an arm behind his head and stared into the void until a nagging idea became a dramatic insistence.
He couldn’t avoid it forever, and better to do it now, while she slept.
Reluctantly leaving Mila behind, he slipped away, but stopped at the wheel.
He stood there for several moments, reviewing the well-worn spokes, the wooden grains.
Such exquisite detail existed in the world, and he’d never known it until he received new eyes.
Since he’d become an Arcanist, he’d only touched the wheel once, and it had been fleeting.
When he had to course correct, he turned the ship with his mind.
He could think and all would alter. Thankfully, Mila accepted his illuminating ropes and shifting sails without question.
Wherever she came from, whatever she knew, Mila had been exposed to and understood the arcane.
He tucked the detail to the corner of his mind.
Well, he didn’t want to think about that now, either. It felt too much like acceptance. Pedr abandoned the wheel to pad barefoot down the stairs. He turned left, left again, and stepped into Havard’s cabin.
Wrong.
His cabin.
Pedr ran the tips of his fingers along the spines of many books along the open shelves to the right. Moonlight lent a vague glow on the world, but his eyes didn’t require more. He could see at night, and rather well.
He plucked the familiar diary off the shelf, flipped it open, and rustled through. Stepping out of the dark room, he headed toward the bow and skimmed the pages as he moved. Scratchy handwriting filled the interior, tinged with vague familiarity.
Pedr had only known him for hours, but Havard had been odd and edgy, as if he dangled on a madness-lined precipice. He might have been a man in a death spiral that Pedr happened to witness.
Or . . . or maybe . . .
The thought died before it gained ballast. No, there was no fate that intervened. There was no calling from the sea, nor chance that things happened this way for any particular purpose. The arcane was real enough. He believed that.
He’d start there.
Shuffling through the pages, Pedr skimmed each line with more intention than before. Havard must have given it to him for a purpose. He managed to decipher the low curves and pithy, strung-out letters after intentional scrutiny.
Onskar speaks of command and control and survival by my own means, but I observe differently. The sea arcane is less about command and more about persuasion. The softer I am, the more readily it comes.
The sea knows herself, anyway, and the arcane doesn’t require me to be an Arcanist. I’m beginning to think it’s Onskar that requires me.
The sea, though . . . she loves those that love her.
I love her. I understand her flows, rills, and ebbs.
There are imperfections in her beaches, in her smells, in her currents and curves.
Yet, she is perfect.
Pedr blinked, staring at the surprising words. He understood. For the first time in his life, he felt as if someone might also understand him.
Skimming the ramblings, convinced that Havard had been on a downward, manic spiral for some time, Pedr committed details in the diary to memory. They remained, firm and clear. His mind moved like a hurricane, but forgot nothing.
He sped to the diary end, where the penmanship improved a little. Minutes of searching later, he realized Havard wrote from the back of the book forward.
A mainland penchant.
A clue.
Pedr perused these more coherent, less frantic thoughts easily.
I cannot write all the truths about being an Arcanist, nor my relationship with the other Arcanists.
Onskar demands secrecy. To write of it is forbidden, and what he demands I must obey.
I can write the heaviest story, however, for he has not explicitly forbidden it. Though, I have not asked. I will not.
If I cannot write it, the arcane shall prevent me. Let me proceed.
The story I desire to impart is that of our origin point; the entire reason that we Arcanists exist in this strange, surreal system. It’s a story of greed and tyranny. A story involving the Siren Queens, the Wyvern Kings, and the di?—
No. I cannot write it.
He has forbidden that single word. You have the idea, at least.
Humans believe these arcane beings to be legends; they are not. They’re real. With time, the truth shall return. Our only hope for humanity lies within the d— and its bloody history.
Pedr ran his fingers over the letters. Siren Queens.
Wyvern Kings. Father had mentioned them before in bedtime stories.
Pedr had friends, tutors who enjoyed telling the folklore and stories, mostly with condescending smiles.
They spoke of some sailors who called for grace from the Siren Queens as they crossed the seas, but mentioned that the practice had largely ceased centuries or decades ago.
If anyone in Elestra cared about Arcanists, they were not obvious about it.
The word wyverns stirred awareness in Pedr. The only wyverns alive were held against their will on the mainland.
They lay in a dusty arena, dumb and trapped.
How old were they, anyway? Did they reproduce?
He’d never cared enough to pay attention to them, like everyone else. He returned his focus to the diary.
Havard reviewed a hasty history of the Great War between the sirens and wyverns.
Something about a division of power was crossed out, and a smear on the page that the author—he doubted it was Havard any longer—noted along the edge that an arcane protection instilled by Onskar prevented his telling the full truth.
The information swirled Pedr’s mind like a rippling pond.
Pedr considered all of it; every angle, every nuance, until the wind rose.
It ruffled his hair and drew his attention.
With a breath, he smelled the sky arcane.
Light. Fragile, almost. Fresh cotton and a sea breeze.
This time, he could feel the force. Himmel.
It smelled like her again. Like . . . freedom.
Yes, freedom.