Break the Chains

by Megan E. O'Keefe

  He lost track of time, sitting there letting the heavy mist in the air dilute the blood on his hands until nothing was left save a ruddy orange stain. He ignored the shouts in the trees, the scuffling and twang of bows nearby. Pelkaia’s crew would win through the night, or they wouldn’t. He’d deal with the consequences of either outcome when they came to find him.

  A crunch of leaves nearby brought his head up, made him focus on reality once more. Tibs slipped through the trees, narrow as they were, and settled on the log beside Detan where Pelkaia had sat. His hat dangled from his hands. He spun it round and round by the brim between his fingers.

  “Rough night,” Tibs said.

  “Had worse.”

  “Every night listening to you snore is worse.”

  Detan snorted, and Tibs clapped him on the back. “Everything’s secure. Pelkaia’s crew helped the watchers patch up their barge and they’re going to go on their merry way in the morning. Don’t much like the look of that repair job, blasted crew was all left thumbs slapping it together, but it should hold to Petrastad. Watch-captain said he’d tell his superiors back home they lost us in the storm.”

  “And us?”

  “We’ll spend the night here, and set out for the Remnant in the morning.”

  Detan looked up at the sky, at the stars turned into foggy blurs by the smeared clouds and angry winds. “Hope she’s ready for us.”

  Tibs chuckled. “This is Ripka Leshe we’re talking about. She’ll probably be queen of the place by the time we get there, ordering Nouli to figure out some new contraption to make food distribution more fair and efficient while forcing New Chum to lead a team of inmates and guards alike in scrubbing the place from top to bottom.”

  “That’s our girl.” Detan snatched the hat from Tibs’s fingers and plunked it on his too-wet head. He stood, scrubbing the last of the blood clean on his Fleetie coat, then chucked the coat into the remaining fire. It sparked, warming his cheeks. He brushed his hands together, wiping away his troubles with each stroke. Ripka waited. He was not going to let her down, no matter what strange poison had taken hold in his veins.

  “Come along, old chum. Let’s go see if we can rustle up some warm food and warmer blankets.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The scuffle of the crew on deck dragged Detan from a dead sleep. He cracked an eyelid, regretted it as the morning sun lanced straight through to the back of his skull, and groaned. Someone elbowed him in the ribs and he grunted, flopping from his side to his back.

  Tibs’s head made a mighty fine sun block. Detan peeled both eyes open and wriggled his fingers and toes to be sure they all still worked. He seemed whole, more or less a few shreds of dignity.

  “Morning, princess,” Tibs drawled and dropped something round and light onto Detan’s chest. It bounced off with a hollow whump.

  “Morning yourself. Did you even bother pretending to sleep, or does the crew now suspect you of undead strength?”

  Detan rolled himself to a seat as Tibs settled down on a crate beside him. They’d spent the night huddled up against one of the cabin walls, letting the eave above keep the rain off even as the wind pounded through their thin blankets. He rolled his wrists and shoulders, listening to the cold muscles and joints pop and creak.

  Coss had taken pity on them and loaned Detan a new coat and Tibs a thicker blanket, but still the wind had bitten. Detan would have asked the crew to let him sleep on the floor of one of their cabins under any other circumstances, but the body language of all involved made it clear as a spring rain he wasn’t wanted. Not even Essi had had so much as a smart remark for him. They were tolerating him, but just barely.

  “I believe it’s you they think came back from the dead, walking on board covered in blood like that.”

  “Mist got most of it off.”

  “Not nearly enough.”

  Detan fumbled until he found the stale bread roll Tibs had tossed him. It was soggy with mist, which did nothing for the flavor, but at least made him feel like he wasn’t about to crack a tooth with every bite.

  “I bet New Chum and Ripka are eating better than us,” Detan muttered around a mushy mouthful.

  Tibs snorted. “I bet rats are eating better than us. Haven’t had a good meal since...” His eyes crossed.

  “Um... Cracked Thorn?”

  “Grass millet and stale beer don’t count.”

  “Sweet skies, Tibs, I can’t afford to please your refined palate.”

  “You can’t afford to please a donkey’s palate.”

  “I’d rather have an ass for company.”

  “You’re in luck, sirra, you’ll always have yourself.”

  That should have cheered him, Tibs calling him an ass always brightened his spirits, but still the bread tasted like ash in his mouth, the water stagnant and bitter. Heaviness dragged at him, a weight that had nothing at all to do with tired limbs and lack of sleep. A weight not even Tibs’s cheery barbs could lift free. Detan thought about saying as much. Thought about asking Tibs to just let him cry his heart out on his shoulder. But he didn’t even have the energy left for that much. He caught Tibs watching him through the corner of his eye and flicked his gaze away, studying the crew.

  There weren’t many aboard, just enough to make it look like the ship was staffed enough to avoid suspicion, and none of them looked like they were born to the jobs they worked. Well, except maybe Essi. That girl could shimmy up a mast pole like her favorite sweet was waiting on top.

  Though the sky had calmed some, ragged hints of the storm remained. Great swathes of cloud smeared the sky with grey, and fog lay heavy over the island. Detan gave up any hope of ever being dry again.

  If he craned his head just right, he could make out the last remnants of the cloud suck. A vortex of death lancing up from the far horizon. Where once that sight would have sent a spear of fear straight through him, it now gave him a tingle of pride. He cracked a grin up at Tibs.

  “We’re the best damned pilots on the Scorched, you know.”

  “Woulda been a sight easier if we’d had someone on hand to manipulate the sel.”

  Detan winced. “All that fear and power flying around? Couldn’t risk it.”

  “Could learn to.”

  He scowled and jerked his coat off, wringing the water out even though the persistent mist would wet it all over again. “Been trying. Or has that escaped you?”

  Tibs brought both hands up and dragged rangy fingers through his hair, making it stick up in all directions. Tiredness suffused his expression, and it wasn’t just from the long night. Detan saw himself in a lot of those fine lines ringing his friend’s eyes, and each one was a pick to the gut.

  “Comes a time a man needs a tutor.”

  “And just how–?”

  “You know how.”

  He could take a lot of abuse from Tibs. Expected it, for the most part. The man’s easy criticisms had become the soothing background hum of Detan’s life. But to be cut off like that, not allowed to finish one of his rambling rants? That stung.

  “I’ll talk to her,” he muttered, and gave a pile of rope a desultory kick.

  “See that you do.”

  Traitor, he wanted to say, but he knew Tibs was right. Knew it was time to reach out for help. The iron stains embedded in his fingernails told him as much. Even if it meant sticking his head in a viper’s nest.

  He found her standing side by side with Coss, staring down the storm that boiled across the sea. Though she must be weary, though every limb must weigh heavy with exhaustion, her back was straight, her hands clasped with care behind her as she canted her head toward Coss to hear whatever it was he had to say.

  Pelkaia was strong, Detan reminded himself. Had nursed her pain for years, burned her spirit to a cinder seeking revenge and risen again from the ashes; proud, controlled. She was on course for a victory he could only allow himself to dream of. She could help him. She had to.

  He let his footsteps be heard against the deck, and their
conversation fell silent. Pelkaia half-turned, regarding him in profile for a long moment, then jerked her chin to beckon him. He felt a child, all of a sudden. Too small in his borrowed coat, too small on the back of the world. Just a speck of a man. For a moment he wondered what the point was. Why someone so small as a single soul thought anything they did, or didn’t do, mattered at all. He swallowed. He’d never wanted to be a good man. Never particularly wanted to be a bad man, either. Just wanted to be left alone to serve his family and his home. Wasn’t his fault he was burdened with his gift. Wasn’t his fault he’d been broken over it.

  “Morning, Honding,” she said. He stood alongside her, pulled by her greeting. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her, not yet, and so he stuck his gaze on the cloudhead they’d been watching and hung it there.

  “Can I have a private word, captain?”

  The very fact he’d used her title, and not some silly name, made her cock her head. He felt her curiosity like a cold rainfall, and forced himself to keep on staring out across the oil-dark waters.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” Coss said. Detan heard him clap his captain on the shoulder before striding off. When his steps dissipated, a cold sweat beaded on the back of Detan’s neck. Now that he had the chance, he wasn’t sure he could force the words out. What would Tibs want him to say here? She knew what was happening to him, Pits below, it should be her coming to him with an offer to help.

  “Well?” she asked, and some trick of the wind brought her perfume around to him – the same vanilla and haval spice blend she’d worn in Aransa. The one that’d given her away. It reminded him that he, too, had his own tricks to play. His own hand full of value.

  Reminded him that once, he’d sat cross-legged on this very deck while she ran him through his paces, testing his control. He’d kept up, even though his back had still burned from setting the sky above Aransa alight. Maybe he wasn’t so small.

  “Long time ago, you said to come see you, when I was ready. Ready to fight.”

  “And are you?”

  “No. But I want to be. I need your help, Pelkaia. I need you to teach me to control this new strength you say I’ve awakened.” The words came out stilted, jumbled, his usual rambling and cajoling cut short by the rawness of his need. He didn’t dare look at her.

  After the silence had stretched on so long he feared he’d break down into a begging mess, she said, “Things have changed. My crew fears you.”

  He swallowed bile. “I know, and I’m sorry. I never meant to… Well, it doesn’t matter what I meant, does it? Just that it was wrong of me. With your guidance, your lessons, it won’t happen again. I swear it. Drug me until I’m docile, if you’d like. Tibs would be delighted, I’m sure.” He tried out a nervous chuckle. She did not join him.

  “I remember when I first saw you, card sharking at the Blasted Rock inn. I thought to myself: there he is, that Honding. The one the rumors swirl about. The man who lost his sel-sense in a mining accident – a fire – and disappeared into Valathea for a year, only to return a criminal. A homeless wanderer. A con man and, if the rumors were to be believed, worse. But I knew. I knew no amount of trauma could scare sel-sense from a body. If that were true, the Catari would have discovered it long ago. The stars know we tried.”

  Detan’s mind whirled from her change in topic, struggling to find the meaning of her words. Struggling to find an angle he could use, a way to show her she could trust him aboard her ship, amongst her crew. “Your people tried to scare the sel-sense from themselves? Why?” he asked, to give himself more time to think.

  “In special cases, yes. We knew of deviant abilities, of course – though we did not call them as such, they were normal variations to us. We named them: illusionist, mirrorworker, windsingers, painters for those who can shift sel to only one color. I never dreamed you were what you are. You’re supposed to be extinct, Honding, did you know that?”

  He snorted. “Certainly many have tried to make that a reality.”

  “Not you – your talent. By the time I was born your talent-brothers and sisters were already believed to be gone from the world. My people had tried everything to expunge the talent, you understand. But it could not be done. Your ability is too... volatile. Too dangerous. Do you know what we called your type?”

  “No.”

  “Worldbreakers.”

  “A bit dramatic,” he grated, gripping the rail.

  “I thought so, at first. But we had stories. Folktales, I thought, but they were grounded in history. Tales of your type banding together, overthrowing our leaders, wiping out rival tribes by bringing their local firemounts to roaring life. The Catari thought... We thought, that we’d purged your strain. But some must have escaped. Perhaps a distant ancestor of yours, fleeing north to the Valathean archipelago. Perhaps that is where your family got their sel-sense from, and why your great-grandparents were drawn to the Scorched. I cannot say for certain.

  “I have taught my crew to call you a firebug, Honding, because I do not want them to know what you are capable of. I will not allow them to learn otherwise.”

  “I don’t... I don’t want to blow open any firemounts, Pelkaia. For pits’ sake, I’m asking you to show me how to control it.”

  He felt her turn to regard him, but did not take his eyes from the blackened sky. “You’re angry now, aren’t you? Can feel it building?”

  “Don’t.”

  She sighed. Her hand alighted upon his shoulder and squeezed. “Leave, Honding.”

  “And go where? This ship–”

  “I do not mean this ship. If you value your life, you will take your flier and flee the Scorched. Flee all of Valathea’s puppets, flee any and every land touched by the use of selium. Go to the backwaters of the far north, or set out to the rumored western continent. And once you are there, and certain the land is dead around you, destroy the flier. Scatter its selium to the high winds. That is the only way.”

  “This is my home, sure as it is yours. How dare you–”

  “Tell me: when was the last time you loved?”

  “None of your pits-cursed business,” he snapped.

  “That long?”

  He swayed, rage boiling within him, and was grateful for Pelkaia’s hand gripping his shoulder, keeping him steady. He breathed through his mouth, soothing his already frayed nerves. This was ridiculous. Why should he listen to what this woman had to say? Just because Tibs thought he needed help didn’t mean he had to ask it of her. He could figure it out on his own. He’d been doing things that way most his life, anyway.

  “Thank you for your time, captain.” He turned to leave, but she dug her fingers into his shoulder and spun him around to face her. Eyes that were so like Ripka’s bore into him, raking hot claws of guilt across his heart.

  “You will not allow yourself to love, because you fear the strength of your anger if that love turns to hurt. No – don’t protest. Just... Just listen to me. I will help you rescue Ripka and New Chum, I will help you return them safely to Petrastad. But it’s not due to any tongue wagging of yours. I see two possible realities behind Captain Leshe’s imprisonment. The first, that she and New Chum became entangled in some matter working against the empire and were arrested. The second, that they allowed themselves to be carted away to that horrible place for some other purpose.

  “I don’t care what the truth is. I have worn that woman’s face, and in doing so worn her habits, her mannerisms. There is very little left in the world that I hold faith in, anymore. But I do believe in one thing: Ripka Leshe is a force for good. And I will not see her suffer, if I can help it. I owe that woman. The world owes that woman, too, they just don’t know it yet.

  “But after that, after I save her, you must flee, do you understand me? You walk too close to the line of your control as it is. I have my crew to care for, and you have your friends’ safety to think of.”

  “Black skies take you.” He shook her hand from his shoulder, then stormed back toward Tibs.

 
; “Do not make me hunt you, Honding,” she called.

  He answered her with a raised finger.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Though she had known it was likely that the warden would already be drunk, Ripka found the reality disappointing. His face was flush from the warmth of the rum he’d no doubt paid a premium to smuggle in from Petrastad. A premium covered by funds meant to keep the prison in working order. He leaned forward across his desk, arms spread wide and palms face down as if he were trying to keep it from spinning away. As Ripka and Enard were ushered through the door, he squinted, trying to place them. She stood at ease, hoping whatever state the bastard’s mind was in was one she could work with.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he slurred, cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “I did not ask to see these two.”

  Captain Lankal stepped forward. Ripka was pleased to see his disgust was no less facing down his drunken boss than it had been in discovering their stash of strange bark peelings. “Warden, sir, we are not certain of the specifics, but we believe we have interrupted an escape attempt. We discovered these two on the beach with Guard Hessan. They had been in a fight, as you can see, and Hessan was severely injured by a concussion. Luckily he managed to get to his whistle before these two could wrest it away from him and finish what they’d begun. And there was this with them.”

  He slung the oilcloth pack onto Radu’s desk and pulled the top flap open. Radu leaned forward, half standing, to peer into the silvery collection of bark. He sniffed the air above it, and a dark scowl overtook his features.

  “I see.” He ran a hand through his hair and his dark locks stayed put, grease sealing every strand into place. “Leave me with them. Do not go far.”

  “Yes, warden.”

  Captain Lankal and the other guard left, leaving Ripka and Enard in chains before the warden. Tense, she waited, wondering what truth the muddled man’s mind would decide upon – and if she would be given a chance to defend herself. He squinted at them once more, then nodded as if having reassured himself of whom he was speaking with.