To Drown Among the Stars

Chapter 1

Salt coated his cold hands as he hauled himself out of the rowboat. Turbulent, grey waves pounded the ship, like his heartbeat in his ears, an insistent chant on this grim, winter day.

You failed. You failed. You failed.

He focused on the worn rungs, sun-bleached and barnacle-covered.

The wind harangued him, plucking at his hair and shirt, while the sea circled below like a hungry animal.

At the top of the ladder, a strong hand clasped his forearm and pulled him on board.

A tall young man with a mop of dark curls engulfed him in a fierce hug.

“Congratulations!” Endre exclaimed. He pulled back, and the joy in his grey eyes bled away. “Bastion? Are you all right?”

Bastion didn’t respond.

He hadn’t expected this, to be immediately faced with Endre’s pride and excitement, and for it to solidify defeat deep in his gut. It permeated every fiber of his being, a gaping maw that threatened to swallow him whole. He wanted to sleep and never wake up.

Endre’s brow quirked almost imperceptibly, and he draped an arm across Bastion’s shoulders. His concern always had the weight of deep compassion–something Bastion felt unworthy of right now as his friend steered him through the expectant crew.

“Bring food and wine!”

“Something hot,” Bastion mumbled.

“Something hot!” Endre echoed, the command in his tone second nature. Men jumped to obey, bowing and skittering away.

The sharp scent of lamp oil met them as they entered Captain Artem’s quarters.

Over a desk bolted to the floor, a lonely lantern swung, casting wild shadows over the dark walls as the ship groaned and rocked.

Books and maps littered every available surface, and a few grandiose paintings caught the light, as eager as flowers for the sun.

Endre moved towards a pair of brocade chairs off to one side, scooping a blanket off the back of one.

He swept it over Bastion’s shoulders as they sat.

Bastion barely noticed. He should have been shivering wildly from the cold, but he wasn’t.

“What happened?” Endre asked, gently. In the darkness, his moon-pale face stood out, his worry more obvious now that they were alone.

Bastion shook his head and dropped his head into his hands.

“Nothing,” he choked out. “Nothing.”

The word had the finality of a death knell. It hung in the air, empty and mournful and completely unprecedented. Only the drum of the sea outside breached the silence.

After a long moment, Bastion sat back, rubbing his temples with his thumbs as a deep sigh escaped him. Endre frowned, his brow pinched.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

“Enter!” Endre called.

A man backed into the room, carrying a tray of cured meats, cheese, and a bit of dried fruit. Another followed with two steaming pints.

They set the food on a small table between Endre and Bastion and left, failing to conceal their wide-eyed curiosity. They might have been in the middle of the ocean, but seafarers were still as eager for a scrap of gossip as the nobility.

Bastion glanced at the food, but didn’t reach for it. The movement of the ship amplified the sick feeling in his stomach.

Endre broke the silence. “I don’t understand. What do you mean–”

“I mean that nothing happened. No visions, no ghosts, no gods.” Bastion reached for one of the pints, pausing before it met his lips. “I’ve just been stuck on a deserted island for the last fortnight.”

He took a long drink of the spiced whiskey cider in hopes of washing his bitterness away. It tingled, the cinnamon strong enough to clear his sinuses. He downed half of it, wishing it were hot enough to scorch his tongue, before noticing the blanched look on Endre’s face.

“Bastion,” he said. “It’s only been three days.”

Bastion sneered and rose, throwing the pint away with enough vehemence that Endre flinched. A metallic clang rang through the room as the vessel hit the wall, barely missing one of the paintings. Its contents dripped down the wood paneling, glistening in the swinging lamp light.

“If that much time passed, something must have happened,” Endre reasoned.

“No,” Bastion said. He began to pace, the blanket falling from his shoulders. “The Accounts all confirm that time flows differently on the island, but that doesn’t mean something happened.”

“You’re sure?”

Bastion hesitated. A frenetic tremor vibrated through his limbs as he ran his hand through sandy hair, wind-blown and salt-licked. His entire body felt gritty. His breath came sharp and fast as he balanced on the precipice of truth.

“At least one Account details a knight who couldn’t remember anything until he set foot on land again,” Endre said. “Maybe when we return to port–”

“No!” Bastion spun to face his friend. “Do you want me to strip so you can see for yourself? I have no Godmark! No proof that I completed my Trial!”

His voice cracked on the last word.

The ship undulated, causing both Endre and Bastion to brace, and the empty pint rolled toward them.

It scraped against the rough floor, paused, then tipped over the handle with a thunk!

before beginning again. As it arrived at Bastion’s feet, he growled and kicked it across the room.

It hit the wall and bounced into a corner, giving him no satisfaction.

He sank back into his chair with all the grace of a fallen ruin.

You failed. You failed. You failed.

Bastion had spent the last ten years working toward this, determined to rise above his lonely origins so that when the court found out...

He grimaced.

It didn’t matter. At this final, crucial moment, when he was supposed to prove to himself and everyone else that he was worth it, the island had forsaken him.

The gods had forsaken him. The irrevocable change he expected had come with the surety of an executioner’s axe instead of the promise of spring.

“You completed your Trial,” Endre said quietly. “You’ve earned your knighthood.”

“Have I?” Bastion couldn’t keep a note of agony out of his voice. He reached for another pint, and his hand shook. “This is unpreedented, and I don’t have the assurances you do.”

“You speak as if it’s a foregone conclusion!” Endre exclaimed, ever the optimist. “And I am your assurance!”

Bastion drank, bitterness lacing his next words. “And how will that look? The prince intervening for his poor, orphaned friend?”

“No worse than my father intervening for me about my Godmark.”

Endre touched his collarbone, perhaps unconsciously, where the mark of Death was burned into his skin.

Only a handful of people knew which god had visited the prince during his Trial–an attempt to keep people from assuming his reign would be cursed.

The kingdom needed to have faith in him, something that would be shaken by the favor of such a misunderstood god.

Bastion shook his head.

“You are royalty. The council, the guard–they have to accept the king’s command. You have a duty to fulfill. Of course, he’d ensure you’re able to. I strongly doubt that a feeling of purpose will sway them in my favor.”

“And yet, you’ve been talking about that purpose for the entirety of your training,” Endre argued, leaning forwards from the edge of his seat. “No one can deny the hard work you’ve put in, the loyalty you’ve shown.”

“I think you’re overestimating how much faith people have in me,” Bastion said sourly. Defeat swelled and sank its teeth in further, becoming a bone-deep ache. “Divine favor always outweighs mortal toils. And I am clearly out of favor.”

He didn't say, Maybe I always have been.

A slow smile spread across the prince’s face. “And you are underestimating my father’s affection for you. He’ll agree. You earned this.” Endre stood and clapped Bastion’s shoulder. “Eat. Rest. I’ll curb the crew’s curiosity and have Captain Artem chart a course for Tynamara.”

The prince didn’t make it to the door before Bastion said, “No.”

“No?” Endre turned, his brow crinkling. “What do you mean, no?”

“I need time, Endre,” Bastion said, keeping his eyes trained on the contents of his pint.

“Your father, the council, goddesses above, the nobility… I need time to come to terms with these events. If I’m to be at peace with whatever judgment is passed on me, I must reconcile this failure for myself first.”

You failed. You failed. You failed.

Endre nodded slowly, thoughtfully. Bastion knew he was contemplating refusing the request, but in the end, he sighed.

“Brightwater Bay, then. We can dock there, and I’ll go on ahead. Take all the time you need.” He turned to go but stopped once more. “Bastion?”

Bastion looked up.

Something deadly serious entered Endre’s gaze. “You didn’t fail.”