by Ted Neill
“The ship decays without Ghede,” he whispered, weak from his wound.
“What do you mean?”
“The Elawn is old, from another time. Older than the treasure we seek. These airships were put into service for nefarious means, but some, some like this one and the others in the cave, were taken to serve the good. They were put into the trust of Ghede’s kind to be used when the time called for it. His presence preserved the ship and her supplies long past their normal lifespan.”
“Then we should turn back, before the ship collapses beneath us,” she said, finally voicing her reservations about continuing.
“No,” he said, straining to lift his head from the pillow, his face filmed in sweat. “It is more important than ever that we succeed. The other ship. Your brother. Even Mortimer. Ghede’s counterpart would not have flown the Tantallon this far if there were not some part they had to play in this journey.”
“A journey that ended up killing Ghede.”
“No one can foresee all the outcomes. But don’t let his death be in vain.”
Gabriella turned and studied the boards at her feet. Did they look older, more withered and weathered, than just days before? “I was so sure you would say to turn back, I had not thought of the alternative.”
“Going forward?” Omanuju said.
“Yes. I can’t be skipper.”
“But you must for I will not be able to accompany you to the end.”
“What? Don’t talk that way,” Gabriella said, her insides roiling with panic and anger at once. “You must keep up hope!”
“My dear Gabriella, we have to face the reality of the situation.” Omanuju lifted the sheet so she could see his chest. Where not covered by bandages, it was streaked with shades of red, yellow, and gray.
“Omanuju, no—”
“I know you and Mortimer did your best, but this wound is deep.”
Calamity after calamity was befalling her. Disasters she had never imagined. First Ghede, now Omanuju. “But Omanuju, I can’t go on, not here, not with—”
“Mortimer?”
“Dameon,” she whispered.
“But Gabriella, you know his ways best.”
“But I hate him. I hate how he has ruined our family. I hate how he’s—he’s a burden and broken and worthless,” she was clutching the ends of her hair in her fists, her hands shaking.
“But Gabriella—”
“I came on this journey in hopes the dead might cure him. Might make him like other children. Because I’m tired, so tired of him, Omanuju. At the river, I didn’t even jump in to save him. I didn’t . . . because I realized I wanted him to die.”
He reached out a hand to touch hers, but she pulled it back. She felt unworthy of anyone’s touch, of anyone’s sympathy.
“This makes my heart heavy, Gabriella.”
“It’s why you have to live,” she said before she was choked off by a sob.
“That is out of our control.” His voice caught in his throat. “You must master the ship and yourself. Dameon loves you in his own way. He’s here for a reason. He is the way he is for a reason. Fate will show you.”
She had nothing more to say. This time she took his offered hand and held it until he fell into a fitful sleep. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he spoke nonsense in his dreams. She and Mortimer took turns holding a compress to his brow and serving him water whenever he woke. But their ministrations were for naught.
Omanuju died in the small hours just before dawn.
For a long time all three of them—Gabriella, Mortimer, and the elk—simply sat with his body, Gabriella weeping, her crying coming in waves, until the windows lightened and Mortimer said, “We ought to release him.”
The sun was hidden behind gray clouds, as if it too was grieving. Rain swirled in the air. Gabriella struggled with the levers in the wheel well until she was able to bring the Elawn down close to the water. They wrapped Omanuju in a sheet and quietly dropped him over the stern.
Mortimer remained at the stern a long while alongside Adamantus. Mortimer’s sadness she could understand—his guilt as well—but the elk surprised her. Never had she seen an animal mourn so openly. He held his head low to touch the railing and kept his eyes locked on the horizon, as if he could still see the very point where Omanuju’s body had disappeared beneath the waves. It gave Gabriella pause to think, as she remembered Omanuju’s last words in his feverish dreams.
“The elk,” he had said. “Talk to Adamantus.”
The day passed, somehow. Gabriella went through the motions of preparing food for Dameon. She did not eat. Neither did Mortimer nor Adamantus. No one spoke. Gabriella hunched over in the pilot’s seat. Mortimer sat alone at the prow of the ship, the elk at the stern. In the morning, Gabriella simply let the Elawn drift, but by the afternoon she had been forced to take the controls as a squall struck from the northeast. It was more wind than rain, and for a while she struggled with the controls, but as she had noted before, the mechanisms of the Elawn were intuitive, and it was not long before she felt that she understood the basics of keeping the airship on course.
After all, she had no choice. There was no one left to pilot. She knew she would have to show Mortimer, but to talk with anyone, especially him, was too great a task. She kept to herself.
Night came early. With the sun still hidden behind clouds, there was no sunset. She wrapped herself in a blanket and stared out over the levers and the wheel until sleep finally took her, and she slid from her seat down to the floor of the wheel well. A stiff breeze had picked up from the southwest, cutting through her blanket, yet she felt too heavy with lethargy to get up and grab another. Cold was somehow fitting just then, painful, flesh-biting cold.
She was shivering when Adamantus’ hooves sounded on the boards and he nudged her with his nose, like a dog seeking attention. She reached out, still half asleep, and stroked his face. But he was more insistent than a dog or even a horse sniffing for treats. He pushed her forcefully, and she heard a voice. “Gabriella, wake up.”
She stirred, shaking her head and rubbing her eyes, then put a hand on the wheel and calculated their heading by the stars. The elk was still beside her, staring at her with those piercing eyes. She was certain that in her half-awake, half-dreaming state she had heard him speak. Now that she was fully awake, she knew better.
“I suppose you won’t talk now that I am awake, will you?” she said, rubbing Adamantus’ nose.
“You were awake the first time.”
She fell out of the chair and scrambled out of the wheel well. “Mortimer, this is not a funny joke,” she said, looking for the trapper lurking in the shadows.
“I implore you, Gabriella.” The voice was deep, baritone, yet soft at the same time. “Do not wake him, as I do not know yet if he is ready for the secret.”
The ship rolled as a fresh gust pushed the sails to full extension. Gabriella laid her hand on the wheel, not to steady the ship, but rather herself. “Omanuju’s words, ‘talk to the elk,’ he really meant talk to you.”
“Indeed, he trusted you.”
“But what—I don’t understand, this is too much.”
“More than demons, dragons, the dead speaking prophesies?”
Gabriella sat down on the edge of the wheel well. “How do I know I am not dreaming?”
“Does it seem like a dream?”
She had to admit, it didn’t. She took stock of her surroundings, the sensation of the deck under her feet, the niggling pain of a hangnail on her right index finger, the stray wisp of hair on her cheek. She shook her head slowly. “But you are an animal.”
“No more than you are.” Adamantus’ voice was sharp.
“I suppose, flesh and blood and all . . . .”
“Gabriella, there is a longer story you have stepped into. A story Omanuju was aware of, but now you, whether you are ready or not, must know.”
She swallowed and nodded, unsure if there was any way to know if she was ready.
“The Serv
ior are an old order. They are powerful and knowledgeable in the dark arts, yet they are but shadows of those they serve.”
“Who do they serve?”
“The Kryen.”
A shiver traveled up her spine involuntarily. Ghede had used the word in passing when he had talked about men who had hunted his people. It had stuck in her mind, for its very sound was reminiscent of a scream. “I do not know what they are.”
“Count yourself fortunate that you do not. But the time comes near that they may break their bonds.”
“Are they human?”
“Once . . . what to call them now, even I do not know. But it takes great power, deep knowledge, and strong character to defeat them. Those who opposed them had to find a place, a race, to be caretakers of this knowledge.”
“You?”
“Yes, my kind. The opponents of the Kryen disbanded themselves lest they fall into the same trap of power as the Kryen had. But their wisdom had to be preserved, so they gave my kind the gift of speech. They made us caretakers.”
“That is why Omanuju said you were so important.”
Adamantus lowered his head in which she realized was a nod. How human-like, she thought. One part of her was in complete disbelief; the other noted how credible and real the scene was: the wind on her skin, the smooth wood beneath her hand, the creak of boards under her. Like the dragon, demons, and all of the dreadful things she had seen in Castle Foyle, this was as far as she could tell . . . real.
“So why is this journey so important?”
“The tower cannot fall into the hands of the Servior. The dead know this, even though their motive may be mixed. Ghede’s assistance shows the nature of our errand is dire.”
Gabriella shook her head, her thoughts racing. This journey was about a prophecy for her home island, for Harkness, a dispute over land, or so she had thought. Now its implications were growing, like waves rippling across a pond, expanding without borders. She closed her hands over her face as if by doing so she could make the world small again, her challenges manageable.
“Gabriella,” Adamantus was saying—speaking—her name. Speaking. Talking. She could not deny what she heard.
“It’s just—”
A noise startled her. They both looked to the stern as one of the double doors to the cabin opened. In the moonlight, she could make out Mortimer, coming to take the next shift at the wheel.
“He mustn’t know,” Adamantus said as he shook his mane. He trotted away, silent once more as Mortimer took his place beside the wheel.
“Ready to switch?” he asked her.
“Yes, I think I’m losing my mind here.”
The wind slackened later that night. The stillness of the ship woke Gabriella. Absent were the gentle rhythmic moans and creaks of the ship she had grown accustomed to over these weeks. Faint moonlight glazed the windows of the cabin. The moon. Getting up and going outside meant looking at it and admitting how large it had grown. Their window to pay the debt to Mab Miller was closing. But first things first: the Elawn had stalled. She had to investigate.
Adamantus hovered outside the double doors as if guarding the cabin entrance. His eyes glowed silver with reflected moonlight. She wondered if the events earlier were just a dream. For a long while she stared at the elk, waiting for him—almost daring him—to speak. But he was intent on letting her have the first word. By the way his eyes fixed on her, she knew she had not dreamed the conversation before.
“How long have we been adrift?” she asked, as if it were the most natural thing to ask an elk a question.
“Half of an hour,” Adamantus said. “But we have been slowing a long while.”
Gabriella paused. The moon was waxing to full. No longer a crescent, it looked more like a marble rolling in a puddle of ink. “Adamantus, we are nearly halfway to the new moon and not nearly completed with a journey, I don’t—”
“Gabriella, there must be a way. Ghede knew the distance to the eastern continent. There is a way.”
“But even if Ghede knew it, we don’t know it now, we . . . we can’t make it back in time,” Gabriella said, surprised at the relief that came as she finally unburdened herself of her worry, even if she was confiding in an animal. She must have shown her frustration on her face, for Adamantus immediately repeated his words. “One challenge at a time.”
She nodded and wondered what long conversations Omanuju and Adamantus had shared, what they had confided in one another, for it was clear to her that the elk was wise. She brought her thoughts back to the present with a shake of her head. The deck was cold under her feet. The wheel well was empty, and the main sails hung loosely, ghostly in the moonlight. Gabriella walked down the length of the mid-deck. Mortimer was near the starboard bow, wrestling with the guy line. She squatted down, her knees against her chest, her bare feet cantilevering on the corner of the deck so that the edge massaged her arches.
As she sat she became aware of something else: they were low, very low. The waves cupped the moonlight in such a way that she could tell she was not looking at the sea from the height of clouds. As she listened, her ears confirmed her impression for she heard the hiss and bellow of a whale, even the spattering of rain as its spray fell back down and onto the massive back of the beast. The paneled sails turned aimlessly.
When it was clear Mortimer was only making matters worse, Gabriella spoke. “It’s tricky, learning to fly this, but if you think of it as a regular sail, it’s not unlike an oceangoing vessel.”
Her voice startled him. He spun around, moonlight flashing on the blade in his hand. Gabriella stood quickly, only to lose her footing and fall flat on the deck, her tailbone smarting. Mortimer lowered the knife and laughed awkwardly.
“Aye, the main mast was easy to work with. I just yanked that—” he paused, looking for the right word, “halyard. But this one, I was not so sure. Just could not find the hitches where these ropes went.”
He had made a beginner’s mistake, even for a regular boat that floated on water. He had held the guy line and the halyard in the same hand, switching them unknowingly and twisting them around.
“It’s an easy mistake to make in the dark.” Gabriella knew managing the lines was something most children learned on their second or third outing on a boat. She untangled the lines with him. As she neared the railing, she caught a glimpse of the ocean just below.
“Mr. Creedly, we’re much too low. You could have struck the water, and I doubt this ship is seaworthy.”
“I was looking for a better wind. I angled the lever for the rigging like you showed me.”
“Go up. It’s always windier higher.”
“But I was afraid of breaking the sail. In the darkness, I cannot see where the roof of the sky might be.”
Gabriella studied his face. It was difficult to read his expression in the dark, but his tone had been completely earnest. She knew enough of him and his pride by now to be certain that he would not have exposed such ignorance purposely. Despite herself, she pitied him.
“I understand your concern. I should have mentioned to you that that was not something you should worry about. The air grows very cold and thin as you rise. It would be unbearably cold and too thin to breathe before we went too high.” Even as she said this, she wondered at the knowledge she had gained from this trip and now to be sharing it, like some expert, made her wince. She felt Ghede and Omanuju’s losses painfully in her chest, like a pit opening up to swallow her heart.
She helped Mortimer with the sails, and they went back to the wheel well. Gabriella remained on deck until the Elawn climbed high enough to find an air stream to push them along. The bulwarks and the joists of the ship became lively again with creaks and groans as the ship leaned into a steady breeze.
Higher up as they were, it was a bit colder. She brought Mortimer a blanket from stowage.
“This cold does not mean we are too high?” he asked.
“We’re fine. If you have problems breathing, drop the ship down a bit, but not
too much.” For a moment she remembered Ghede piloting the ship so high into the air that their breath turned to ice. She shoved the memory away. It hurt to remember Ghede.
Gabriella yanked on the halyard. The rope had obstinately refused to hold a good knot the first dozen times she had tied it earlier in the day. It was easy enough to blame it on Mortimer this time, but such things continued to trouble her. She felt that none of the knots she had tied since Ghede was gone were holding properly. More signs of decay? She retied the lines, then returned to the warmth of the cabin, determined not to dwell on her worries.
Chapter 3
The Judgement
Chains held Sade and Vondales in place on a bench, not so tight that they could not row but without enough slack to stand. The slave galley became their world. The Judgement, as the ship was called, had two sets of sixteen oars on each side. The aft held more slaves fastened to the ship by manacles and waist bands. Female slaves were raped—so were the youngest boys—the crew taking turns in the cabin, the cries of their victims filling the silence between drum beats from the drummer in the bow.
Not that Sade ever saw the crew. He only heard them above. Below decks, he and Volandes lived in darkness. If the ship was their world, their god was Ravitch, the overseer. He was a thick Thelonian who wore a leather vest over a bare torso no matter the weather. The vest left his arms free to swing his whip or hammer his truncheon into uncooperative slaves. His shoulders were hairier than his head, which was smooth except for the places where blood vessels stood out on his temples when he exerted himself. His face looked flattened, as if an unloving god had tried to mash his features with a press of a giant thumb. His eyes constantly darted from one slave to the next. Sade soon learned that this was a good thing. It was when his gaze landed on you, focused on you, that a beating was sure to come. Even some days when they were rowing apace and a breeze could be felt in the hold from their swift movement over the waves, Ravitch, would still pick a victim to whip, sometimes to bludgeon, as if it were necessary to inflict pain on at least one rower a day to keep the others motivated—or scared.