by Caitlin Seal
Naya knocked on the door to her old cabin. Back when she’d first joined her father aboard the Gallant, he’d had the carpenter put in a wall to divide the captain’s cabin. The newly created room had only been big enough to house a narrow bunk and a sea chest, but Naya had loved it all the same.
“What?” Francisco’s voice came muffled through the door’s thin wood.
“May I come in?” Naya asked.
“Whatever you need can wait until morning.”
“I just want to talk.”
“Tomorrow.” He was obviously trying to sound stern, but the note of misery in his voice ruined the effect.
Naya rolled her eyes. “If you want to spend your whole night sick, that’s your business. But in case no one’s told you, you’ll feel a lot better if you go above deck. It will help your body get used to the waves. And if you’d like, we can ask the cook to make some ginger tea to settle your stomach.”
Silence. Then Naya heard a rustle of cloth. Finally, Francisco opened the door a crack and peered out at Naya. She gave him a sympathetic smile, trying to ignore the smell of sick wafting from the small room.
“What do you really want?” Francisco asked.
“To help,” Naya said. “It won’t do anyone any good if you show up at the Congress half-dead.”
“I doubt your people would even notice. What is it you call us, ‘walking corpses’?”
“I don’t call us that,” Naya said. She had once, back before she’d come to Ceramor and had learned exactly how wrong her people were about necromancy and the undead. “Just come out for a bit, please? If you don’t feel better, you can go back to stewing in here.”
The ship rocked as they cut through a small wave. Francisco squeezed his eyes shut. “Please don’t talk about stewing, or stew. I really don’t want to think about food right now.”
“Not another word,” Naya agreed.
Francisco drew in a shallow breath. “Fine, let’s go.” He brushed past Naya on unsteady feet, and Naya followed him up the narrow stairs. The wind had shifted while they were at dinner, blowing more strongly from the west. Naya tucked her hair under the collar of her shirt to keep it from whipping in her face. If she concentrated, she supposed she could probably keep it from blowing at all, or will it into a braid, but the mental effort didn’t seem worthwhile.
Francisco crossed the deck and stood by the starboard railing, holding on with a white-knuckled grip. “You said something about tea?”
Naya nodded, then walked to the deckhouse that served as the ship’s galley. She found the cook looking over a provision list while a cabin boy of perhaps twelve scrubbed the night’s dishes. He seemed unsurprised by Naya’s request, and in a few minutes she was striding back across the deck with a steaming mug held carefully in both hands. Francisco stood leaning against the rail, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
“Here.” She handed Francisco the tea. He took a careful sip, grimacing at the sharp taste before taking a larger swallow. The wind whipped the steam from his mug and toward the dark shadow of the coast before them.
“Thank you,” Francisco said.
Naya nodded. They stood together in silence for a few minutes, watching the coast roll past. “Your father said we’ll be working together at the Congress,” Naya said cautiously. “He had me study with a tutor back in Ceramor, but I still don’t feel like I’ve got a good grasp on what we’ll be doing.”
Francisco took another sip of the tea. “You’re supposed to give your testimony at the trial and read the other delegates’ aether, let my father know if anyone’s acting especially guilty or suspicious.”
Naya watched him out of the corner of her eye. “But the trial is just one part of the Congress. Delence said we’re Ceramor’s undead representatives. We’re supposed to show the other delegates that the undead aren’t monsters. I just don’t know what we can do to make that happen.”
“Do?” Francisco smirked. “I don’t know about you, but I expect I’ll be doing a great deal of standing in corners.”
“How is that supposed to help?”
“Well, seeing as how most Talmirans take our mere existence as a personal affront against all of creation, I’d say standing around will be more than enough to act as a suitable distraction.”
“You know, not all Talmirans are that bad,” Naya said. “And—wait, what do you mean about a distraction?”
Francisco tensed, as though realizing he’d said more than he should. “I only meant that we’re not the ones making any of the decisions. You’ll testify at the trial, and they might let us watch a few of the meetings. Other than that, we’re to attend the parties and smile and keep quiet to show all the nice delegates how harmless we are.”
Naya drew in aether. She could feel the focused energy of the sailors at their tasks, and the mysterious swirl of life deeper in the ocean. Mixed with that, just faintly, was a bitter anger drifting off Francisco. She remembered the look in his eyes when the ships left Belavine. She doubted anyone who’d seen him there would ever make the mistake of thinking him harmless. “You want to do more,” she guessed.
“It doesn’t matter what I want.” Francisco glared into his tea. “Thanks to you and your friends, I’m undead now. Under the treaty laws, I can’t hold any sort of political office, and if Father tried to involve me directly in the negotiations, it would only hurt our cause.”
“I’m sorry,” Naya said. “I never meant for—”
“Stop!” Francisco said. “I see what you’re trying to do here. I don’t want your apologies. Apologies won’t change what happened.”
Naya had to clench her jaw to keep from snapping back at him. “You know, it will be a lot easier to convince people to trust us if we don’t spend the whole Congress treating each other like enemies.”
Francisco’s grip on the mug tightened. He glared out at the darkened sea for a long moment before meeting her gaze again. “Let me make one thing very clear. My father might be willing to overlook what you did to our family, but I won’t. I’ll work with you if that’s what he thinks is best, but I don’t trust you and I don’t forgive you. So stop acting as though we could be friends. It’s a waste of time.”
Anger and guilt warred in Naya’s chest. Before she could untangle them into a reply, she heard the heavy tread of boots behind her. “Apologies for interrupting, but you two best get below,” Captain Cervacaro said, raising his voice to be heard over the wind.
“Is there a problem?” Naya asked.
“Storm coming,” Cervacaro said. “Shouldn’t be too bad, but we’ll have to swing a little wider of the coast to avoid drawing too near the rocks round Bassil Point.”
“Is there any risk?” Francisco asked.
“There’s always risk,” Cervacaro said with a hard smile. “But don’t worry. These summer squalls blow themselves out quick.”
Naya stayed on deck long enough to see that Cervacaro spoke true. The Gallant rocked as the waves rose, but she’d seen her father navigate worse without so much as a torn sail. Naya lingered a few minutes, watching carefully as Cervacaro turned the ship away from shore and ordered the larger sails trimmed to ease the strain on the masts. When the rain started, she reluctantly trudged below deck.
She kept one hand on the wall as she traversed the narrow hallway to her cabin. Her thoughts felt hazy and slow. It was the mental exhaustion of a long day spent battling too many questions with too few answers. She could draw aether to suppress it, but that was only a temporary fix. She needed to spend a few hours alone and give her mind a chance to rest.
When she opened the door to her cabin, she heard a sharp intake of breath and felt a stab of fear in the aether. Felicia was kneeling on the floor, stuffing something back into Naya’s bag. Her father’s logbook, Naya realized with a start. “What are you doing?” she asked, stepping into the room and quickly shutting the door.
Felicia stood, then grabbed the edge of the bunk to keep from falling. “I’m sorry! The deck started pitching and that bag wasn’t tied down. Your things spilled out. I was only trying to put them back before anything got damaged.”
Naya crossed the room, panic rising in her chest. She knelt next to the bag and opened it. Yes, there was her father’s logbook near the top, and not far from it, the bag of coin. She pushed those aside and withdrew a velvet-wrapped bundle from the center of the bag. Bracing herself against the wall, she unwrapped it carefully, then breathed a sigh of relief when she found Corten’s little glass bird inside still intact.
Felicia let out a startled yelp as the ship surged over a larger wave. “We aren’t going to sink, are we?” she asked, her expression hovering somewhere between fear and excitement.
Naya refolded the covering surrounding the bird. “We won’t sink.” Was Felicia’s fear just for the storm, or was it an act to cover what Naya had seen? Felicia wouldn’t be able to read anything in the logbook, but if she reported it to someone, it could bring trouble. Naya tried to judge how long she’d been gone. It’d been at least a half hour since she had left to check on Francisco, more than enough time for Felicia to rummage through Naya’s things.
Naya put the bird back in the bag, then secured it in the drawer below the bunk. “Come on, I’ll help you into the hammock.”
“I don’t think—” Felicia began.
“Trust me,” Naya said. “In this weather it will be a lot more comfortable than the bunk.” And once she was up there she’d have trouble getting down without help until the storm passed. Naya wouldn’t have to worry about Felicia sneaking off or trying to rummage through her things again.
Eventually Felicia agreed and let Naya help her up into the hammock. Once Felicia was situated, Naya settled into the bunk, gripping the wall to keep from sliding as the ship rocked. She whispered a prayer for smooth seas and fast winds. They were barely a day into their voyage and already it felt like the longest crossing she’d ever made.
Corten’s legs felt heavy as he trudged through death. The shadows around his feet had turned from grass to uncertain mist. Images flashed in the corners of his vision, faces or places he remembered, but he no longer fell into them. The memories felt somehow far away, like they had happened to someone else. In the distance he heard the howls of the creature that had chased him, but he no longer had the energy to run.
A strange glow caused him to look up from his shadow-wrapped feet. Ahead he saw a massive rectangle of pale-gray light. Brighter light shone around the edges, like illumination seeping through the cracks of a door. The sharp outline of the doorway was so different from the uncertain world around him that for a moment Corten assumed it was another hallucination. But no, the door wasn’t anything from his memories. It felt more solid, more real, than anything else he’d encountered in this strange place. As Corten stared at the doorway, he noticed other figures in the dim light. Unlike the shadow man who’d confronted him before, these were obviously people, and obviously dead.
An old woman with sallow skin drifted past Corten. She walked out of the darkness like she was in a dream, apparently unafraid of the monsters lurking in the shadows. Everything about her, from her gray hair to her flowing dress, looked insubstantial, almost transparent.
“Excuse me,” Corten said. But the old woman’s eyes remained locked on the doorway, and her calm expression didn’t change as she walked past him. When she reached the door, she raised her hand to touch the rectangle of light. Then she vanished.
Corten watched in growing horror as others streamed toward the doorway and disappeared. Most were like the old woman, calm almost to the point that they looked like they were sleepwalking. But there were a few people who didn’t step through. They lingered around the edges of the light, sitting or lying down or standing and staring at the door as Corten did. Corten approached the nearest, a black-haired man who looked to be in his late forties. His cheeks were gaunt, and a deep gash surrounded by purple bruising marred the right half of his forehead.
“Excuse me?” Corten asked.
The man didn’t seem to hear him. He rocked back and forth, muttering something under his breath.
“Sir?” Corten grabbed the man’s sleeve.
The man cried out and jerked away. He took a step back, then glanced over his shoulder and whimpered before shuffling forward again. His eyes met Corten’s, then seemed to look through him to fixate on the door. “Can’t go forward. Can’t go back. Can’t go forward. Can’t go back.”
“Don’t bother with him,” said a voice from somewhere to Corten’s right.
Corten spun. A young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, sat on the ground ten paces away, watching him through a single dark eye. The other eye was just an empty socket bisected by a nasty scar. The woman had dark skin and wavy black hair that suggested some mix of Banian blood. She wore loose trousers and a man’s shirt and seemed somehow more solid than the people around her.
“Why not?” Corten asked.
“Cuz he’s mad,” the woman said with an unnerving grin.
Corten looked again at the gaunt man. “What’s he doing here?”
“Same as all the rest of us. Standing in the doorway.”
“The door to what?”
The woman tipped back her head and let out a laugh that shrieked like rusty iron. As though in answer, the shadows beyond the light seemed to writhe, and Corten heard a distant rumble that might have been a growl. The woman’s laugh cut off abruptly and her eye narrowed. “Door to what. That’s the question, isn’t it? On the Islands they say death just leads you to another life, on and on and on again as we all follow the Way’s Light. Might be that. Might be the realm of that Creator the Talmirans and Ceramorans are always yammering about. Might be the chambers of the Silmaran All-Judge and his whisper court. Or the world of the damned. Might be something else. Most people don’t seem to ask any questions. They walk up to the door, and then they disappear.”
They watched together in silence as more souls streamed toward the door. The souls looked to have come from all walks of life—rich, poor, young, old. Some wore the marks of their deaths plainly, the frailty of long illness or the ravages of a more violent end. The worst of these drifted forward with their hazy legs not quite touching the ground. Others looked so ordinary that Corten never would have guessed there was anything wrong with them if he’d passed them on the street. He even saw one man pushing himself forward in the ghostly image of a rolling chair, its form re-created from memory by the same strange magic that shaped Corten’s fire-scorched clothes.
“What are those?” Corten asked, half to himself, as a few blobs of colorful light drifted playfully into view among the more distinct figures.
The woman’s expression softened. “Babies, I think. There was a necromancer who came through here once and told me that the ones who die real young haven’t had time to get attached to their bodies yet, so when they show up here, they look like that.”
“Oh.” Corten’s chest tightened.
There was something both tragic and hypnotizing about the procession. And the longer Corten watched, the more he felt the subtle pull of the door on his senses. It wasn’t anything so obvious as the wind and monsters that had driven him here. It didn’t speak like the shadow man. But there was still something undeniably enticing about it, like the pull of a soft bed after a long day’s work. Corten shuddered and took a step back. “Why haven’t you gone through?” he asked the woman.
She took a long time answering, and for a moment Corten thought she hadn’t heard him. He was just about to repeat the question when she pried her gaze from the door to give him a flat look. “Maybe I just don’t want to,” she said, sticking out her chin. “Don’t see you hurrying to give yourself up.”
Corten shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m not ready to die yet.”
The woman snorted.
“Hate to tell you, but you’re already dead.”
“I’ve got friends,” Corten said, hating how uncertain the words sounded. “They’ll come for me.”
“They won’t. Even the necromancers can’t touch this place. Nobody comes here but the dead, and nobody leaves unless it’s through the door. The scavengers see to that.”
“Scavengers?”
The woman pursed her lips. “Don’t know what they are really, but they live in the dark. They’ve got a taste for people like you and me, the ones who try to hold on. There’s something about that trying that clings to us.”
“You seem to know an awful lot,” Corten said.
“The shadow man told me,” the woman said, looking away. “He comes by every now and then and whispers about how I’ve got to go through the door, how everybody goes through. He says, ‘Go on, Servala, there’s nothing left for you out there. Your family’s gone through. Your crew’s gone through. Don’t you want to know where they went? Don’t you want to rest?’ Then the shadow man goes on about how if I tried to go back into the dark, the scavengers would tear me up. Wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it happen myself.”
“So you’ve just been waiting? For how long?”
Servala shrugged. “No idea. Time’s funny here.”
Corten glared at the door, nurturing an irrational hope that if he just stared hard enough, it would give up its secrets. When nothing happened he sat down next to the woman. “You said your name’s Servala?” he asked.
“That’s me,” Servala said.
“I’m Corten.”
Servala gave him a curious look. “Well, Corten, you’re better off going through that door. We all go mad out here, eventually.”