“Still, it is astoundingly thoughtful.”
“It’s what I can do,” she said. “I feel useless lately. The least I can do is cook. Problem is, I really don’t know how. But I can boil water like nobody’s business. I’d like to make a cup for Royce. Hadrian says he gets seasick and I always thought tea soothed the stomach, but he’s up in the rigging. Still, at the rate we’re traveling I don’t think it will be much longer before we land.”
Myron tilted the cup to his lips and sipped. “It tastes wonderful. You did an excellent job.”
She smirked at him. “You’d say that even if it was awful. I get the impression I could serve you dishwater and you’d act perfectly happy.”
He nodded. “That is true, only I wouldn’t be acting.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then stopped. “You really mean that, don’t you?”
He nodded and took another sip.
“It doesn’t take much to please you, does it, Myron?”
“Antun Bulard once wrote ‘When you expect nothing from the world—not the light of the sun, the wet of water, nor the air to breathe—everything is a wonder and every moment a gift.’ ”
“And you expect nothing from the world?”
He looked at her, puzzled. “I’m a monk.”
She smiled and nodded. “You need to teach me to be a monk. I expect too much. I want too much… things I can’t have.”
“Desire can be painful, but so can regret.”
“That is the one thing I have too much of.”
“Sail!” Royce shouted from somewhere above them.
“Where?” Wyatt called from the wheel.
“Off the starboard bow, you’ll be able to see it in another minute.”
Arista and Myron got to their feet and moved to the rail. The dark prow of the Harbinger cut a white slice through the luminous green waves. Ahead, the city was much closer. Arista could see some detail in the buildings—windows, doorways, stairs, and domes.
“Which side is the starboard side?” she asked.
“The right side,” Myron told her. “Starboard is derived from what they used to call the rudder—the sterobord—which was always on the right side of a ship, because most people are right handed. As a result, when docking, the one steering a ship always pulled up placing the opposite side of the ship next to the pier so it didn’t interfere with his paddling, or the rudder. And of course that side, the left side, was the port side. Or so Hill McDavin explained in Chronicles of Maritime Commerce and Trade Practices of the Kilnar Union.”
“Hadrian said you could do stuff like that—but until you see it, it’s hard to believe. It’s amazing that you can remember so many things.”
“Everyone has talents. It’s like magic, I guess.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding slowly. “I suppose it is.”
“Look,” Myron told her, pointing.
She spotted dark sails coming out of the dim light. They were far larger than their own—big sweeping triangles of black canvas with a white mark emblazoned on them. The design was a symbol of slashes that looked vaguely like a skull.
“Everyone get down!” Wyatt shouted. “Royce, tell me if they change course toward us!”
Arista and Myron lay down on the deck but continued to peer out at the approaching vessel. The hull came into view as if out of a green fog. It too was black and glistened with the ocean’s spray, looking like smoked glass. With the underside reflecting the unholy glow of the sea, the ship appeared ominous. It looked as if it were something not of their world at all.
A light flashed from the top of the masts.
“They are signaling us,” Royce called down.
“Damn,” Wyatt said. “That’s going to be a problem.”
“She’s changing course toward us.”
“Hands to the braces!” Wyatt shouted as he spun the wheel and the Harbinger turned away from the oncoming ship. “They’re onto us now.”
Arista heard a faint shout across the water and she could see movement; small dark figures loped across the deck. As she saw them, a chill ran through her. Like anyone, she had heard tales of the Ba Ran Ghazel—the sea goblins. They were the stuff of legends. Nora, Arista’s nursemaid, had told her fairy stories at bedtime. Most often the tales were about greedy dwarves that kidnapped spoiled princesses, who were always saved by a dashing prince in the end. But sometimes, she spoke about the Ghazel. No prince ever saved a princess from them, no matter how dashing. The Ghazel were vile creatures of the dark, inhuman monsters, the children of a malevolent god. Nora’s tales of the Ghazel always included villages burned, warriors killed, and children taken—not to be ransomed but to be feasted on. The Ghazel always ate their victims.
When Arista was sitting in her bed, wrapped in blankets, surrounded by pillows, and safe in the warmth and light of a crackling fireplace, Nora’s tales were fun. She always imagined dwarves as nasty little men and fairies as tiny winged girls, but the Ghazel she could never conjure entirely—even in the vast imaginings of her childish mind. They were always as they appeared now: distant threatening shadows exhibiting fast jerky movements that no human could make. Nora had always begun her stories the same way: “Not all of this story is true, but enough is…” Looking out at the ship, and the dark figures on the deck, Arista wondered if Nora had realized just how true they were.
The Harbinger pivoted under Wyatt’s deft hand, sheering away to the left. Arista and Myron lost sight of the Ghazel ship. They ran back to the stern, where Wyatt stood holding the wheel with one hand while looking back over his shoulder. The Ghazel ship had matched their tack and was coming up on their stern.
“Everyone to the lee side!”
“Oh, now which side is that?” Arista asked Myron.
“Opposite of windward, ah—right now it is the starboard side.”
“What in Maribor’s name is wrong with left and right?”
As soon as they reached the starboard rail, she knew why Wyatt had ordered them there. As he cranked the wheel, the wind pressed the Harbinger’s sails and bent the ship over on its beam, forcing it dangerously close to capsizing. The starboard side rose higher and higher.
Arista wrapped her arms around the rail to keep from sliding and Myron did the same. Farther up the deck, Magnus looked terrified as he clutched the side, his feet skidding and slipping on the wet boards. If the ship had flown before, it was doing something unheard of now. They no longer dipped and rose, but like a bar of soap running across a washboard, they hammered the crests as they went. The ship felt like a stone being skipped across a lake.
“Ha-ha!” Wyatt jeered, the wind ripping the words from his mouth so that she barely heard him. “Match that with your overweight trow!”
She watched Wyatt, with his feet in place against the stock, his arms holding the wheel, hugging it to his chest like a lover, his hair blowing, the spray bathing him. He wore a grin and she was not certain whether she should be happy or concerned. The rest of them hung on in desperation as the race sent them across the luminous sea.
Arista noticed the pain in her arm lessening, the ship righting itself, their speed dropping. She glanced at Wyatt and saw a look of concern.
“They’re stealing our wind,” he grumbled.
“How are they doing that?” Alric asked.
“They are putting us in their wind shadow, moving their ship in line with ours, blocking it—depriving us. Hands to the braces! Starboard tack!”
The ship was nearly flat now, allowing Hadrian and Elden to run. They cast off ropes and pulled the yard around again, the big sail flapping as Wyatt turned the ship to catch the wind from the other side. Overhead, Royce moved among the top lines, working the upper sail.
“Haul those sheets in!” They caught the wind once more and the ship set off again. “All hands to port!”
Arista was ahead of him, already running across the deck to renew her grip on the rail. She knew what was coming this time and got her feet planted securely before the side of th
e ship rose. Beyond the stern, she could see the following ship already turning to mimic their action, the great black sails with the skull-like symbols flapping loose as they came around. They were much closer now. She could clearly see the creatures crawling across the deck, climbing ropes. Dozens of them had gathered near the bow. It frightened her to see them move. They skidded along on all fours like spiders—a shipload of huge black tarantulas—so tightly packed they climbed over each other just to move about.
The Harbinger skipped the waves again, racing directly at the city, but it was no use. The following ship, with its larger bank of sails, was still eating up the distance between them and moved to cut their wind again.
“Elden, Hadrian!” Wyatt called. “I will be going about, but when I do, I will then change my mind and go back to my previous tack, do you understand? The moment you get my signal, run the jib up to port.”
Hadrian looked at Elden, who was nodding. “Show him, Elden. This has to go perfectly or we’re dead in the water. Also, get Alric and Mauvin on the lines. More hands will make this easier. The moment we are back on tack and under way, drop the jib. Let’s see how good their crew is. They have the advantage of more canvas, so let’s turn that against them. With all that sail, it will take them longer to recover, and if they don’t pull back in time, they will stall.”
“Your Highness,” he said, addressing Arista, “I will need to be facing forward to time this just right, so you need to be my eyes astern. I need you to watch the Ghazel ship and tell me the moment you see them starting to come around, got that?”
“Yes,” she replied, nodding in case her feeble voice was lost in the wind.
“Then get forward and hang on.”
She nodded again and began crawling to the front of the ship, moving hand over hand along the rail.
“Stand by to come about!” Wyatt shouted.
He waited. She watched as the Ghazel ship once more glided over, aligning itself, eclipsing their wind. Wyatt flexed his fingers on the wheel and took a deep breath. He even closed his eyes for a moment, perhaps saying a silent prayer; then he stiffened his back and turned the wheel hard over.
The ship sheered back to port. “Tacks and sheets!”
Elden and Hadrian went to work once more, and Mauvin and Alric followed their directions, pulling the yards round. Arista focused her gaze on the Ghazel ship behind them. She could feel the Harbinger shifting, sensed it slowing underneath her as it started to lose the wind.
“They’re turning!” she shouted as she saw the Ghazel coming about. The tiny spiders scattered across their deck in sudden fury. They were not just trying to match their turn; they were trying to beat them to it.
Wyatt did nothing.
“They’re turning,” she yelled again.
“I heard you,” he said. “We need to wait for them to be fully committed.”
Arista gripped the rail with nervous hands, feeling the ship moving slower and slower.
“Avast!” he finally shouted. “Back all braces! Raise the jib!”
The ship still had some wind, still some forward motion to it, and when Wyatt turned the wheel, it responded. The jib out front had the angle and caught what was left of the wind, turning the bow. A wave caught them dead on and broke, washing the deck, but the ship held true. The sails caught the wind and filled. Elden hauled down the jib as once more the Harbinger flew.
Behind them, the Ghazel realized their mistake but were too late. They tried to mimic the turn and she watched as their sails went slack.
Wyatt looked behind them. “They’re lost, stalled in the eye of the wind,” he declared, grinning, his chest heaving with excitement. “It will take them several minutes to catch it again. By then we will—”
“Sail!” Royce shouted. “Starboard bow!”
Wyatt’s grin melted as his head turned. Ahead of them appeared a ship that looked nearly identical to the one behind. It flashed a light and behind them the other Ghazel ship replied.
Wyatt looked fore and aft and she could see the story written clearly in lines of fear on his face. Through great skill, and a bit of luck, they had barely managed to avoid one ship. They would not fare well against two.
“Sail! Port bow!” Royce shouted, and she could see Wyatt visibly slump against the wheel as if struck from behind.
Wyatt lay off the wheel and let the ship slow and level off. There was no need to hasten their approach. Everyone on board looked to him.
“What now?” Alric asked, coming aft.
Wyatt did not reply. He just turned his head, looking back and forth at the ships. His forehead glistened. He bit his lip, and Arista noticed his left hand starting to shake.
“We’re out of options, aren’t we?” Alric asked.
“This ship doesn’t even have nets to impede boarders,” Wyatt replied.
“How will they attack?” Hadrian asked. “Will they board?”
“Eventually, yes, but first they will clear the deck with arrows.”
“Fire?”
“No,” Wyatt replied. “They have us. We’re boxed in, overwhelmed. They will want the ship.”
“Do we have to surrender?” Alric asked.
“Ghazel don’t take prisoners,” Hadrian told him. “They don’t even have a word in their language for surrender.”
“What do we do, then?” the king asked.
“We don’t really have a lot of options, Your Majesty,” Wyatt told him. “Those ships hold sixty, maybe as many as a hundred Ghazel each, and we don’t even have a means of shooting back. Their archers will drive us into the cabin; then they will grapple on and come aboard uncontested. At that point they could lock us in and sail us to their port.”
“Which they will do,” Hadrian added. “Then they will drag us into a ring and… and, well, you get the idea. No sense in spoiling the surprise.”
“I hate ships!” Magnus growled. “Infernal things. There’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.”
“We’re going to… die?” Gaunt asked, stunned. “I—I can’t die. I’m going to be emperor.”
“Yeah, well, we all had plans, didn’t we?” Hadrian said.
“I didn’t,” Royce said, climbing down from the rigging. Arista noted a modest smile on his lips. “I don’t think I’ll be joining you in the cabin. I don’t mind a game of arrow dodging.”
“Actually only Arista and Myron should go in the cabin,” Hadrian said. “The rest of us will remain on deck. We’ll need shields—anything of wood about an inch thick will do, or metal even thinner. Trilons don’t have much penetration power. We can also use the mast as cover.”
Arista looked out at the approaching ships, coming at angles to intercept them. The Ba Ran Ghazel were coming and there would be no rescue by a dashing prince—the Ghazel always ate their victims.
“Not this time,” she told herself, and letting go of the rail, she walked forward. She stepped around Wyatt at the wheel and passed through the group of men in the waist.
“Arista?” Hadrian called. “You should get in the cabin.”
She looked out at the water.
“Mr. Deminthal,” she shouted, “take hold of that wheel. Everyone else… hang on to something.”
Taking a breath, Arista calmed herself and reached out into the dark—into the energy that lay around them, above and below. She could feel the depths of the ocean, the weight of the water, the floor of the sea, the fish, the seaweed, the glowing algae. She felt the breeze and grabbed it tight.
The wind, which had been a constant presence since they had climbed out of the shaft to the beach, abruptly died. The sails drooped; the incessant quiver and clank of pulleys and ropes halted. Not a breath remained and the world became silent. Even the waves perished. The ships stopped as the sea became as tranquil as a bathtub. The silence was deafening.
Then across the water the hush was broken by Ghazel voices. She could hear them, like the barks and howls of dogs. She felt them too. She felt everything and held it all in her grip.
Fire? she thought. She had played that note before. She knew just how to do it. But as enticing as the thought of three flaming pyres against the water was, the light would alert the shore.
Wind? She could sense that chord. It was powerful. She could shatter the ships. No. Too unwieldy, like trying to pick up a coin with mittens.
Water? Yes! It was everywhere. She twisted three fingers in the air and the world responded with movement.
The sea swirled.
Currents formed, churning, building, rotating, and spinning. The three Ghazel ships began to rotate, revolving as if they were toy boats in a tub she had flicked with a finger.
Whirlpools formed.
Beneath the goblin ships, circles appeared—large swirling funnels of spinning water. Faster and faster they moved, the centers giving way, dropping lower as the speed of the rotation increased. They widened, spreading out, and grew in strength. Even the Harbinger began to rock noticeably as the maelstroms reached out to pull on the strength of the whole sea.
The barks of the Ghazel became cries and screams as the ships continued to spin. A crack issued across the water as a mast snapped. Then another, and another, poles the size of tree trunks popped like twigs. The Ghazel shrieked and wailed, their voices blurring into one note, which Arista also held.
The sheer enormity of the power she worked was incredible. It was so easy and all at her command. Everything—every droplet, every breath, every heartbeat—it was all hers. She felt them, touched them, played with them. It was irresistible, like scratching a terrible itch. She let the power run. It was so big, so potent. She did not just control the power; she was the power, and it was her. She whirled, she frothed, and she wanted to run, to spin and grow. Like a ball sent off a hill, she felt the building momentum. It excited her and she loved the motion—the freedom! She felt herself letting go, giving herself to it, spreading out and becoming a part of the symphony she played—so grand—so beautiful. All she wanted was to blend with the whole, to become—
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