Chapter Eight #3
I think back over the past few months. The overcast gloom that settled over Caeldera in the aftermath of the attack. The pervasive chill that seems to follow me wherever I go. Surely, I am not responsible for that. Surely, I cannot be inadvertently influencing the very skies.
And yet…
Yesterday, when Penn and I left the city, I was startled to see the rest of Dyved in the full bloom of spring, while Caeldera lingered in perpetual winter.
When we’d arrived at Blister Bight, the fymandridae were basking in the sun.
Not ten minutes later, they fled as clouds moved in and mist blanketed their steaming pools.
And as Penn and I began to bicker…as my emotions heightened to a breaking point… a wild storm had been unleashed.
Gods above.
I look over at Soren. My heart is a riot in my chest. “I had no idea. I did not even know it was possible to do such a thing.”
“Your power, when suppressed, will find other ways of expressing itself,” he says.
There is no judgment in his voice, only bare fact.
“I told you once before: you cannot live as Pendefyre does. A life of repression and restraint is not what you were created for. The more you push down your grief instead of processing it, the more you bury your guilt instead of exposing it to the light, the longer it will fester in the shadowy corners of your mind. And the worse the ramifications. Not only for you, but for everyone in your path.” He pauses.
“Or, at least, everyone who shares your immediate climate.”
He seems to find this horrid state of affairs trifling. I am too alarmed by my own unconscious actions to muster a response.
“Don’t fret, skylark. When I was six years old, I had a temper tantrum after my father forbade me from swimming out beyond the sea gate without supervision.
I flooded an entire region off the northern coast in my rage.
Ruined an entire harvest’s worth of crops and nearly caused a famine.
That was a cause for concern.” He shakes his head.
“A little cloudy weather won’t doom the realm. ”
Soren, age six.
What an unfamiliar image. I try to picture it—him, young and coltish, overcome by his own abilities—and find I cannot. I blow out a breath. “How do I stop it?”
“Being aware you’re doing it is a good first step.”
“How can you be so flippant about all of this?”
“Would you rather I yelled at you?” he asks, tone mild.
“Railed once again about your need for proper training? Frankly, I have grown tired of berating you in the hopes that you come around. It doesn’t seem to work anyway.
I figure you will either accept that you need to master your abilities…
or you won’t.” His eyes slide closed. “Just let me know whatever you choose. I’ll be here when—if—you decide you are ready for a real lesson in Remnant power. ”
I mull over his words as Deke steers our flatboat down countless canals.
Soren seems perfectly content with the silence.
He remains statue-still beside me on the bench seat, his eyes closed, his posture relaxed.
I wish suddenly that he was not so adept at shutting me out.
His emotions are locked away in an inaccessible vault, secure as the warded door of his bedchamber.
It is especially frustrating, seeing as the man always seems to know exactly what I am thinking and feeling—sometimes even before I know myself.
After nearly an hour, the waterways spit us out into the expansive harbor I saw from my balcony.
It is much larger up close than it appeared from a distance, dominating the southernmost quarter of the island.
There are larger vessels here than any we passed by in the canals—bulky, triple-masted tall ships with carved figureheads at their bows and bundled white sails on their booms; sleek schooners with shallow drafts, fully outfitted with battle-ready cannons.
Sailors scurry across long wooden sprits and climb up netted rope riggings as they prepare for departure.
A sudden loud groan of metal shakes the sky.
I sit straight up, certain we are under attack, yet neither Soren nor Deke reacts with the slightest bit of alarm.
It is not until I locate the source of the racket on the far side of the harbor that I relax.
Two massive waterwheels, each taller than a warehouse, start to turn, churning the surface to froth.
A second later, the city walls split at the center as the gargantuan sea gate inches open in smooth jolts, permitting entry into the port’s protective embrace.
Everyone from the sailors in the rigging to the bystanders on the docks turns their attention toward the new arrival.
Even Soren cracks his eyes open long enough to examine the fishing rig that is making its way through the ever-widening gap.
His relaxed posture shifts in the space between one blink and the next.
He abruptly sits up, frame taut with tension.
I do not understand the intensity of his expression until I see that the outrigger is towing a much larger vessel behind it, thick ropes straining under the load.
A merchant ship, from the looks of it. I am not familiar with boats, but even I can tell something is wrong from no more than a cursory examination.
The sails are not rolled neatly around their booms but flutter loose in the breeze, tattered and wind-torn.
No crew scrambles in the rigging, no one races along the decks.
No captain stands proudly at the wheel. It appears to be unmanned.
A ghost ship.
“Strange,” Soren mutters. Glancing around at Deke, he jerks his chin to the side of the harbor, where many rowing craft are tied to cleats embedded in the stone. “Take us to the tie-up, will you?”
Deke nods. He, too, bears a strangely unsettled expression—ruddy cheeks gone pale, dark eyes darting continually over to the harbor mouth even as he steers us toward an open spot at the end of the dinghy dock.
We glide to a stop and, with a murmur of thanks to our sternman, Soren hops out, then offers me a hand to follow after him. I barely have time to wave goodbye before I am dragged away. There is an uncharacteristic speed to Soren’s steps, contrary to his typical smooth pace, as we round the harbor.
“What’s going on?”
His hand squeezes mine once, then drops to his side. His eyes do not shift from the main dock where a flurry of sailors are securing the towed vessel to knee-high bollards with thick braided lines.
“I don’t know yet. But that ship—the Selkie—was due in from the Southlands weeks ago.
We assumed it was caught in the doldrums in the Endless Ocean, or run aground in the Desert Depths off Carvage.
It’s not uncommon—the drifts from the Husk Desert blow far offshore, creating league-long shoals that shift with every major storm.
Makes it damn near impossible to navigate that coastline. ”
“But you don’t think that’s the case now?”
“No, I don’t. I know the captain personally.
Her crew has made that run a dozen times without incident.
To see her limping into port on a fisherman’s towline…
no crew in sight…” He trails off as we cut through a swarm of sailors and civilians, all stretching their necks to stare.
They part to give us a path as soon as they recognize Soren in their midst.
We are still a fair distance away, but even from here I can see dockhands positioning a gangplank against the starboard side.
A young man, hardly older than Lestyn, races up its length the second it is secured, an anticipatory grin splitting his face.
A pair of older men follow after him, their own steps tempered by experience.
Or foreboding. They disappear out of sight as soon as their boots hit the deck.
I study the sails as we close the final stretch of distance separating us from the vessel.
There is something odd about them. I thought, at first, they were shredded by strong winds.
But a closer examination shows more than mere tatters.
The thick canvas material appears almost translucent in places.
Too thin to effectively catch a breeze. It reminds me of the gauze I use to wrap wounds. Wafer-thin. Filmy. Like…
Cobwebs.
“Soren—” I start.
But my warning is overshadowed by a piercing scream of utter horror. Even from inside the bowels of the ship, it is loud enough to bring all activity on the docks to a standstill.
“What in the deepest hells?” a nearby soldier coiling a length of rope mutters.
His voice is drowned out by yet another scream.
This one is harrowing enough to electrify the gathered crowd.
Some spring into action, others start to flee the scene.
But most stand stock-still, staring up at the ghost ship with equal parts trepidation and fascination.
My chin tips up to Soren at the same instant he glances down at me. The look lasts no longer than the length of a heartbeat, but I know what he is going to suggest long before he speaks.
“We should probably—”
“Let’s go!” I yell as I take off running.
Soren matches me stride for stride as we race toward the ship.
We fight the thick crowd as we go. Soren starts shoving people physically out of our path to get through.
We reach the bottom of the gangplank just as the young sailor reappears at the top.
Blood is sprayed down his left side. It doesn’t look like his.
His face is white as a sheet. His bellow is one of unadulterated terror.
“ARACHNIDAE!”
Gods.
The word echoes across the harbor, setting off a chorus of fear that rises sharply at our backs from the bystanders.
People disperse like they are being shot at with crossbow bolts, scurrying off the docks and away from the harbor as quickly as their feet can carry them.
Only a few leather-faced sailors remain, eyeing the hull with a wariness that makes my throat convulse.
The youth barrels down to us, each word cracking with hysteria.
“Top deck was abandoned, so we went down into the hold. Thought the crew were asleep in their berths! Wasn’t till we got close we saw they weren’t in their hammocks at all!
” He shoulders past Soren, so terrorized he doesn’t even realize who he is pushing.
“Cocooned in webs, they were! Blood sucked out!”
Suppressing a shiver of horror, I grab the boy by the arm. “Wait a minute, you’re covered in blood.”
“Not mine!” His eyes fly to my face, only half focused.
I can see the whites on all sides, they’re so wide.
“Marcus and Emil! Dead, both dead! Didn’t even see it happen, the fiend was so fast!
Just a blur in the dark! I barely made it out of there!
” His throat works as he rips out of my grip and ducks behind a barrel. “Gods, we’re all going to die!”
“Perfect,” I mutter.
Evidently, even idyllic Hylios is not exempt from life’s miseries. Death has followed me here as well, effectively as the ugly weather.
Soren is busy barking orders at the few remaining dockhands who have not fled in terror.
“You! Get to the tower guards, tell them to close the sea gate. No boat traffic in or out until we have this contained. Now.” He points at another man.
“You, get a message to the beacon lighters. Emergency lockdown protocol. I want everyone off the streets, shutters drawn.” His gaze swings to a female sailor.
“You, run to the hospital. Tell them to have the antivenin on standby. As much as we have.” He drops down into a crouch to speak to the young man, who is hyperventilating.
“You. Get ahold of yourself. I need you to take a message to the barracks and bring a full unit here, battle ready, as soon as they’re able.
Make sure they fill their quivers with immolating arrows. ”
The boy takes a tremulous breath. His eyes widen as he finally registers he is staring at his king. He squeaks out a faint agreement before he finds his feet, then takes off in what I can only hope is the direction of the barracks.
I watch him go, then glance back at Soren.
He is still crouched, but his head is angled up to mine.
When our eyes meet, his are glowing bluer than ever, awhirl with maegic.
I can feel it gathering inside him like a storm, triggering a swell of power in my own chest. It presses violently against my rib cage, a wild animal ready to be unleashed.
I square my shoulders, trying to appear unfazed, though I am relatively sure my expression is pale as the spider silk cloaking the ship’s masts.
I brace myself for the inevitable explanation that this situation is too dangerous for me; the subsequent suggestion that I retreat to the villa, where I’ll be safe from harm while he handles whatever horrors await inside the ship.
Instead, his lips twist into the specter of a smile as he rises back to full height.
“You!” he barks in the same gruff tone he used with the sailors. “You’re with me.”