Chapter Twenty
PEDR
Avoice slithered through Pedr’s mind, weaving in and out of half-lucid nightmares, because no dream could be this painful.
You will never defeat us.
Who was it?
Oh, right. Amalia. Amalia, the Siren Queen who used her fetid arcane, treacherous as death and oil, to weave a curse.
You arrogant swine, Amalia murmured, silken as a caress.
You will live out your Arcanist life on the ocean that you love, unable to swim in the water, seeking your Mila, desiring revenge of which you cannot speak.
You will never enjoy the things you love most. Not the sea, your freedom, nor Mila.
She will remain where she belongs until the Arcanist of Souls takes you where we will never go.
This is your curse, you fool.
The words haunted him to life with a coaxing, horrifying, goading force he wanted nothing to do with. He turned away from the lingering whispers. The Siren Queens enacted their final control.
I’ll save you, he had promised Mila. I’ll save you.
Don’t waste your life on resistance, you fool, another voice purred in the background. The weighty, thick feeling churned through what used to be veins.
It is futile.
Had he been obliterated? Did he exist outside of his thoughts? A command to move his hand twitched somewhere. Painful, but present. Progress. He tried the other hand with the same result, then his toes. Success on all counts.
Miserable.
Agonizing, but evidence of existence.
I can’t save Mila if I’m not alive, he reminded himself. The reverberation of her name through his skull stirred him to higher fervor. Yes, Mila. He feasted on that one reminder as he slowly extracted from this murmuring stranglehold.
After what felt like unspeakable eternities, his eyes opened. A blurry but familiar world revealed through sparkling starlight and salted sea air. He lay on his ship, which rocked in gentle waves . . . somewhere. Based on the smell, it was nowhere he’d been since becoming Arcanist.
Jolting upright, he let out a painful shout. His body screamed and everything felt leaden, as if he carried sandbags under his skin. How much torture did he endure to cause lasting pain in his Arcanist’s body?
He forced himself to stand. Didn’t he deserve the agony? He failed Mila. The terror of living without her, constrained to this ship—he couldn’t let himself think about it yet.
He knew more about the Siren Queens than anyone alive, and he would use every piece of that knowledge against them. He had time to form a plan, find Mila, and set her free. In fact, he had nothing but time.
Resolve gave him a physical boost as he staggered to his feet.
Grimacing, he gazed around. No land nor soul in sight.
A quick review of the stars gave him a basic idea where he was, and the arcane below the boat provided more.
He sailed somewhere in the middle of the northern sea. He had a feeling days had passed.
The biddies.
They sent him far, far away. North of the mainland, in the lap of the citadels.
“Shite,” he muttered.
To his greatest relief, the ship steered in a broad loop. The sea arcane still responded to him. He headed against the current that bore him this far. It was weak, at best. Perhaps too far for the Queens to manipulate, or it was from their sheer lack of attention.
Pedr peered over the side. Memories resurrected, reminding him about something with the sea. He couldn’t quite grab understanding yet. His mind continued to wake from the torpor. Amalia said something about the sea, and Mila, and . . . speaking their names?
A rush of dizziness swept him. He slackened, tipped over the side and—slammed into the deck.
Pedr groaned, a hand to his head. Painful percussion ripped through his skull. When it faded, he wrenched an eye open. That wasn’t right. He should have fallen overboard and into the safety of the water. He should have been swimming, alleviating the agony pressing into his joints.
Amalia’s voice resurrected again, repeating the mad loops. He couldn’t discern her whispers, so he stumbled for his cabin, grabbed the diary, threw it open. Pedr’s shaking hands transcribed whatever words he heard until he collapsed and slipped back to the black.
The next day, Havard’s diary flapped in the wind.
Pedr stood at the wheel and tracked it from the corner of his eyes, unwilling to fully acknowledge it.
In his strange deliriums, he had attacked the pages with pen and ink.
Written down everything the voices said.
So many had spoken, and none of it made sense.
He resumed consciousness an unknown amount of time later, with all of it feeling like a lucid, strange dream.
At some point, he’d crack the pages open and attempt to understand. For now, the cursed clouds cleared his mind and he comprehended again.
Thrice cursed.
He couldn’t say their names, Mila’s name, or leave the ship. There might be another layer—he couldn’t remember what it was. Didn’t matter, anyway. He’d figure it out sometime, after forming more structure in his plan to seek Mila.
Curses, like rules, were made to be broken.
A punishing current bore him south again. He skirted the edge of the known Isles, heading for Kapurnick. First, he’d visit his siblings, update them. They’d have to come on the ship because he couldn’t leave, but it wouldn’t matter. After they helped him resupply, which they would, he’d head west.
Himmel’s mournful voice whispered past the shell of his ear. I’m sorry, Pedr.
“It’s not your fault.”
Pedr . . .
A vanishing command faded from her voice. He knew what she wanted to say. All the things he would say to Malcolm or Britt if they accepted this reckless course.
You hardly knew her.
She’s not worth the danger.
She’ll forget you.
She’s part siren, it wasn’t real.
To Himmel’s credit, she said none of them. Pedr cleared his throat. “You won’t dissuade me, Himmel.”
We may have just been acquainted, but I fully understood that.
An ethereal form hovered near the wheel, evanescent and temporary.
Himmel. Her arcane was at once familiar and forbidden.
Getting too close to Himmel would be uncomfortable, and he wondered if she felt the same about the sea.
Wind guttered by without ceasing, of course, as the sea crashed without apology.
“I’m not giving up, Himmel.”
I know.
“Will you help me?”
As often as I can.
Her agreement sent a ripple of relief through him.
He hadn’t realized how tightly he held to the twins of hope and despair until this moment.
He wouldn’t acknowledge that Mila had been taken.
At least, not fully. Couldn’t. If he did, he’d unravel.
If he considered how effortlessly the Siren Queens overcame him, Pedr might die in his own self-hatred.
“Can you see anything at the Westlands?”
No. The arcane fog continues. I cannot penetrate it to see inside. I will continue to watch while you plan. Together, we may come up with something.
“Thank you.”
Greater surges provided a boon to his sails, hurrying them along to Kapurnick. Pedr gripped the wheel spokes.
“I promise I’ll find you, Mila.” He canted a stare higher, into the ropes, masts, sails. “On the Rosenvatten, my love.” Rightness settled in his chest. Yes, the Rosenvatten, his beloved ship. His tool to bringing Mila home.
He murmured, “Together, we’ll bring you home. Don’t give up on me yet.”
He hoped Himmel carried the words to Mila’s ears until he could whisper them himself.