Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter
twenty-seven
“What’s the holdup?” Vaughn barks at me. “Sun’s rising already. Get your ass on board or I’ll toss you up.”
I do not doubt he will.
Still, my feet remain rooted to the dock, eyes shifting back and forth between the two black-sailed ships as the first rays of dawn bathe the harbor in shades of palest pink.
The rest of our party have already divided themselves neatly into groups, with Soren, Alaric, Vaughn, Yara, Harpina, and Bretiax moving to the first as Penn, Jac, Mabon, Cadogan, Farley, and Melité make for the second.
I alone hesitate, unsure which I’m meant to board.
“Rhya,” Penn calls, staring at me from where he’s stopped halfway up the gangplank. “Come.”
I take a step, then stop. My gaze flashes to the other vessel where Soren stands at the rail, arms crossed over his chest, focus intent on me. He says nothing—not with his mouth, in any case. His eyes are saying plenty.
Across the harbor, the sea gate is ratcheting open in slow degrees, every churn of the waterwheel stirring up more indecision inside me. But suddenly Jac is there, wrapping his uninjured arm around my shoulders and squeezing in reassurance.
“Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little sailing adventure, Ace. You’ll find your sea legs in no time.”
“I’m not scared. I thought maybe I’d go on the other—”
“Nonsense. They’ve got the big man dragging them down already,” he continues merrily. He seems no worse for wear despite the sling slanting across his chest. “Can’t afford any extra weight.”
“I heard that!” Vaughn bellows.
Chuckling, Jac steers me onto the gangplank, straight toward Penn. And my moment of uncertainty is lost.
It is a strange voyage.
We sail southward, a pair of sleek, seaworthy brigs with double-masted square rigs and unfussy quarters belowdecks.
The sails are unusual in design, dyed deep black to blend in against the night skies, and stitched with glyphs to mirror the midday sunshine during daylight hours. Perfect for a stealth mission.
Normally, ships of this size can accommodate a full score of sailors.
But we have no need for additional bodies burdening our holds, nor extra lives that might be put at risk.
Our crews are kept as lean as possible, with each allotted only two extra sailors to help heave halyards and navigate through the nights.
Our skipper, to my delight, is none other than Deke, who mans the helm on the upper deck at the stern with a weathered air of expertise I find infinitely comforting as we round the Daggerpoint peninsula, then begin to chart our way to Dymmeria.
The rest of us get a crash course in all aspects of nautical travel, taking turns doing everything from preparing sparse meals in the galley to unfurling heavy canvas sails from the booms to scurrying up ratlines to swabbing the salt-crusted decks.
We catch sleep when we can, in hammocks or narrow bunks, lulled into a fitful slumber by the endless whooshing of waves against the wood hull.
At night, we take turns at the astrolabe, using the stars as our guide. During the day, we use the spyglass to scan the horizon for anything of note, be it enemy ships from the smoke-hazed Midlands or the sea monsters that supposedly make these waters their home.
I have yet to see evidence of them, despite Deke’s warnings. I do, however, see plenty of dolphins, who plunge and prance before our bow with gleeful abandon, their bottle-noses breaking tirelessly through the swells.
It surprises me how quickly I settle into seafaring life.
While our mission was born out of joyless necessity, the passage itself unleashes a thrill within me no amount of apprehension can erase.
I spend much of my time standing upon the sunny foredeck, soaking in the feeling of wind in my hair, the salt on my skin, thinking of my wild days of youth on the white shores of Seahaven, when life was so much simpler.
Sometimes, Jac or Farley or Mabon stands with me, but more often than not they are otherwise occupied, entertaining themselves up in the crow’s nest or wagering over rounds of twyllo or sparring hand to hand on the quarterdeck.
As for Cadogan, I do not think his eyes have left Melité for even a moment since we boarded.
He trails her like an imprinted duckling, his clear adoration provoking a constant barrage of ribbing from the rest of the men.
The siren herself seems slightly amused but mostly indifferent, keeping to her own company most of the time and never lifting a finger to help, be it in furling sails or coiling lines.
That is fine by me.
I have no great interest in befriending Melité.
In all honesty, I avoid her whenever I can.
Something about her sets my teeth on edge.
But even her inky-orb eyes and austere attitude cannot dampen my spirits.
At sea, I feel nearly as exhilarated as I did soaring high above the Vale on Zephyr’s back, the heavens rushing around me.
Not all of us take to sailing like fish to water.
Poor Pendefyre has no affinity for it. He has never been less in his element, for the sea is the antithesis of everything that makes him who he is, a direct assault to the maegic blazing through his veins.
To be surrounded by it on all sides is surely as uncomfortable as I feel whenever I find myself entombed in deep earth.
On the rare occasions he emerges from his cabin, he looks rather green, his sea legs shaky, his temper foul. Everyone on the ship gives him a wide berth whenever he comes up for air or, on rare occasions, attempts to stomach a solid meal.
I wish there were something I could do to ease the passage for him, but my presence only seems to darken his mood.
It blackens all the more whenever he spots me channeling with the Remnant of Water across the distance.
For, though Soren and I are on different vessels, separated by a whole swath of ocean, we spend several hours each day at our respective bows, merging our powers in an effort to lend the ships unnatural speed.
As Soren’s maegic churns the currents below, ferrying us ferociously through the waves, mine fills our sails with a wind that never wanes, carrying us along at a clip that stuns even Deke.
Our connection has never been so visible, so on display for all to see.
Comments are made, and looks exchanged. Our two deckhands, Chari and Xio, avoid me at all costs, muttering superstitions about testing the limits of nature under their breath.
I pay them no mind.
The heavy weight of Pendefyre’s eyes on my back is somewhat harder to ignore. There is an unspoken accusation in that stare, a simmering jealousy that, if I let it, might pull my focus from the task at hand. Thankfully, I have Soren in my head to keep me going.
“Steady, skylark. Keep a consistent current. Too much will only shred our sails and leave us stranded.”
Alone, I would have faltered after a few moments. But his reserves are far deeper than mine, lasting hours at a time before he breaks away, demanding I stop before I fully deplete myself.
“You need your strength for the Iron Isle. Rest, Rhya. A few hours at least.”
I do not want to rest. I’m thrilled with the progress we are making.
In combining our powers, we have effectively halved a weeklong journey into a four-day one.
Each time the ship slows back to its natural speed, without our maegic to propel it, I’m hit with a wave of disappointment.
The plodding tacks upwind feel unbearably slow in comparison.
More than that, though, I miss Soren’s presence in my head as I lie in my narrow bunk staring at the cabin’s wood ceiling, or sitting in the galley eating flavorless bannocks on a bolted-down stool. Not so very long ago, I chafed against the idea of having anyone inside my head. But now, with him…
When we channel across the distance, we are in total sync. In perfect harmony. Sometimes we keep silent, focused only on our task, but more often we speak back and forth through the mental bond to keep each other company during the long hours.
“The sea agrees with you,” he tells me halfway through the second night, a smile in his voice.
“Is that a surprise?”
“Not to me.” He pauses. “I cannot speak for others.”
He has not failed to notice Pendefyre’s scowls each time he catches sight of us channeling. But I do not want to talk about Penn. My thoughts regarding the both of them feel like walking on a tightrope—one that will fall out from beneath me with a single wrong step.
My eyes sweep across the night sky, where vibrant whirls of green and blue swirl among the stars. “They’re beautiful.”
“Mmm.”
“What are they called?”
“Auroras. The lights of the aether, where the Goddess of Skies meets the God of Seas, and turns the heavens incandescent…Or so they say in the old tales.”
“Are there tales older than you?” I tease.
“Just wait until you have a century under your belt. Then I will be the one making jests at your expense.”
My mind spins at the thought of that. A hundred more years of this. Somehow, the prospect of an immortal life does not seem quite so abhorrent as it once did.
“You know, there was a time you claimed you had no interest in immortality or your role as a Remnant,” I remind him. “If I remember correctly, you declared the prophecy was more than likely some fabricated tale conjured up by a senile oracle who’d spent too long in the opium baths.”
“A statement I stand by, having met the woman.”
“What do you mean, you met her?”
“Precisely what I said.”
I blink hard. “You met the oracle who gave the prophecy?”
“Indeed.”
“How?” I ask, stunned. “And…why?”
“What can I say? I was fifteen years old and curious. I wanted the truth about the prognostication set to dictate my life. So I tracked her down in a paint-spattered temple by the North Sea and demanded an explanation for the rather inconvenient forecast she’d croaked out in the wake of the Cull.”
“And?”