by Keith Walter
“Oh! Years and years,” Grace replied dismissively. Without missing a beat, she launched into an abbreviated story. “My mother grounded me, said I needed take a century and cool off. It was quite lonely at first, but she later gave me all these books, said I should learn something while I was here. She didn’t come back again, but I was put under the care of the noble Ulsimore. I never met him, but I heard him on deck and behind the doors many times. You must know him. He was onboard when I first heard your steps.”
“Ulsimore,” Barclay breathed, unconsciously bringing his hand up and pinching the bridge of his nose. “So you’ve been locked in here for decades?”
“Four decades to be exact, yes,” Grace replied innocently.
“How exactly have you survived, alone, in this tiny room, for forty years?” Barclay demanded.
“Oh.” Grace waved. “While the locks on the doors kept me from being heard or working magic, they did not cut me off from the world completely. I have been able to hear and feel many things on and around this ship. The ship retained a connection to the sea and was able to provide for me.”
Barclay eyed the young woman. He tried to probe her strength, feeling almost nothing. If she had spent the last several hours repairing the ship, that wouldn’t be surprising. She wasn’t one of his kin, he could tell that much, but there were plenty more water fey around. A fuzzy memory wormed forward and he stared at her hair. “You were on the bridge before.”
“Yes,” she admitted. “I was…freed…rather unexpectedly. I could tell there was great trouble at the docks, and we were all in danger. I went to the bridge first thing to ensure we escaped.”
“You healed me, didn’t you?” he asked, rubbing his head and already sure of the answer. “How does a fey get brained by a simple ship window like that?”
“Yes.” She looked down. “This ship is…enchanted. It is powered by and suffused with magic. I imagine you noticed that, even under attack, it was not easy to damage.”
“You know a lot about this ship, then.”
“As much as there is to know, I imagine,” Grace replied wistfully.
Barclay couldn’t quite peg the woman. Her answers were forthright, often more information than he asked. But there was a vagueness as well, something just off the straight path he preferred to walk. Then again, if she had been stuck in here forty years, it would be understandable that she wasn’t totally comfortable talking to someone new. He wanted to ask about the ship, what it could do, when a cough interrupted the interrogation.
Grace turned to the figure on the cot and dropped to her knees. She put her hands over the thing’s chest and let a green glow develop in her palms. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to help him like I helped you, but something keeps blocking me.”
“Gods, you telling me that thing’s still alive?” Barclay asked, louder than he intended.
“Oh, yes, very much so,” she answered. “But he may not be for much longer.” Fresh droplets streamed down her face, “I don’t know what to do.”
Barclay stepped closer to the cot, now more worried for the fey in bandages than his own safety. “Who is this?”
“I don’t know his name,” Grace admitted. “He is the one that opened the door to the engine room.”
“Charles?” Barclay sucked in a harsh breath. “How in the hell did he get here?”
“Charles,” Grace repeated softly, a relieved reverence in her voice. Looking up at the older man, she added, “I couldn’t feel everything that well, but it seemed like there was a battle at the docks. There was an explosion and then—” she pointed at the ceiling over the porthole “—he landed in my room.”
“Through the ceiling?” Barclay pondered aloud. He stared at the disfigured man, trying to piece together the puzzle in front of him. As the ship bobbed slightly in the waves, light from the window dipped. Barclay caught the edge of script around the bandages on Charles’s chest. “What’s that?” he asked, more to himself than Grace. Reaching down, he touched the small section of open skin and felt the pulse of runic characters.
“I wasn’t sure,” Grace replied, watching Barclay poke the half-dead man. “It is runic, but I couldn’t decipher it.
“It’s a patchwork of several different origins,” Barclay announced, “there are several layers here.” He poked the skin, sending a small jolt of his magic into the script. A single character shimmered briefly before turning black. “It’s suppressing his magic.” He poked again, looking for some external lock, but was surprised to find none. “He did this himself. Why the hell would a fey be blocking his own magic?”
“I think,” Grace offered tentatively, “he might not have control.” She reached out next to Barclay’s fingers and tugged down the bandages over Charles’s chest. As the bandages moved, they revealed a spiderweb of scars that all drew down to a single point above his heart. As Barclay traced the scars, he could feel heat and sparks of magic jump from the center.
“Broken heart,” Barclay whispered. “Fuck!” he cried, startling Grace. “You’re right, his core is pierced. It’s barely holding together. He should be dead from that alone, but that scar is a decade old if it’s a day. He didn’t get it last night.”
“Does that mean he can’t be healed?” Grace asked.
Barclay pinched the bridge of his nose again. “It means we might be better off letting him go.”
“What?” Grace demanded. “He saved us. He freed me! How could we just—” She cut herself off with a new thought. “I have to try.”
“He is a ticking time bomb in that condition,” Barclay admitted. He tried to catch Grace’s eye, but she refused to acknowledge the statement. He sighed. If that really was Charles, and he had no reason to think otherwise, he owed the man. A fey without control was dangerous, unable to really focus their power. But then, Charles had clearly gone to lengths to prevent just that, carving runes into his skin. And that scar, it was old. Clearly Charles had been living this way a pretty long time. Barclay fell back on his old ideals: never leave a comrade behind. And Charles was certainly a comrade. Mind made up, Barclay leaned over Charles and grabbed the bandages around his chest in one finger. With a flick, he charged the cloth and it split in two.
“What are you doing?” Grace asked, her voice rising with each syllable.
For just a moment, Barclay had the vague sense of danger, like something big and unfathomably powerful had turned its gaze upon him. His eyes flickered to Grace and she dropped her eyes. The feeling disappeared as quickly as it came, so he answered, “You’ll never be able to heal him right with these runes blocking you. I’m going to try tweaking them.” He ran his hands over the script, which he realized now covered Charles’s shoulders, chest, and stomach. He ignored the drying blood collecting on his fingers, focusing entirely on the flow of magic under Charles’s skin.
“There,” he announced as his thumb brushed Charles’s right side. “Not just keeping magic in, but keeping it out, too.”
“Can you fix it?” Grace pleaded.
“Give me a second, will ya?” Barclay grumbled. He kept his thumb pressed on the beginning of a sequence of characters. He was no rune master himself, and what he was reading had been very carefully layered. But he knew enough, could recognize the basics. He put his free hand to his mouth and used his teeth to slice a small cut in his middle finger. He waited for a drop of his own blood to emerge before focusing magic into the drop. It would be too risky to erase the runes; they were all so intertwined. But changing one symbol should be fine. Squeezing a drop of blood from his had he let it fall onto Charles’s side. A single character rippled, morphing into a new shape. “Ha,” he said smugly. “Got it.”
“What did you do?” Grace asked curiously, her face hovering close to the new symbol.
“Charles, here, was trying to block out all forms of magic, probably worried he’d change into that thing from last night. I just tweaked it to focus on blocking moonlight alone.” Barclay raised an eyebrow at the younger woman. “I’m assuming you don’t use
moonlight in your magic.”
“No,” Grace replied, relief clear in her voice. Without warning, she sprung forward and wrapped her arms around the older man. “Thank you, thank you.”
Barclay pried himself loose and took an extra step back for good measure. Did nobody on this ship have respect for personal space? “Don’t thank me yet. He’s still not out of the woods, and if he does pull through, we may have bigger problems on our hands.”
“Yes! Of course.” Grace turned back to Charles and dropped to her knees again. Immediately her hands raised over his chest and a green glow developed. As she stared at her hands, she smiled broadly. “His body is still fighting me some, but its working!”
“Yeah,” Barclay replied halfheartedly. Given Charles’s condition, there was no guarantee he’d make it. But as he watched Grace work, the tension from before melted away. Her story was believable enough. Clans had funny ways of punishing their own. Even if it was only partially true, he could tell Grace was as harmless as fey came. With that, his most pressing concern alleviated, he walked out of the room to let her heal in peace.
He was mildly surprised to find Talmer had abandoned the engine room. The younger man probably had a litany of things to say about Barclay’s dismissal. Not that he was complaining. He had better things to do than deal with someone’s ego. Which led him directly to his next thought. While he believed Serin when she said they hadn’t caught anyone following yet, reality was that even if the Entregon hadn’t caught their scent yet (which he couldn’t quite believe), it was only a matter of time.
He was plugged in enough to know the Entregon hadn’t sailed on any of the great lakes lately, so it was probably traveling in by portal. As it wasn’t scheduled to arrive until this morning, they probably had a few hours head start from the docks. If the GPS was accurate, they were a good distance out in front. It wouldn’t nearly be enough to make a getaway on the water. No, the Entregon must already be tracking them, his concealment runes naught but parlor tricks against such a monster. That meant they’d need to find somewhere to head inland soon, somewhere off the beaten path where the Union presence would be thin.
His feet carried him toward the bridge. He knew all the major ports on Erie, but would need a map to find one more appropriate. Momentarily he considered asking Grace—she probably had a book on it somewhere—but realized he wouldn’t be able to trust forty-year-old information. He was relatively certain he’d stashed several maps behind the captain’s chair last month. The sailor in him kept a few in all the old boats, just in case.
As he rose up the stairs to the main deck, he surveyed the horizon and let his nerves settle. On the water, the ship had a completely different personality. Helplessly tied to land, it was a caged bird. Now, finally free, sun danced off the white paint and wood trim, contrasting in a stately elegance. The hustle and bustle of people inside and out blended in with the wind and waves from the lake, creating its own alluring melody. He had expected the old yacht to be bumpy, creaky, and smelly, with time wearing it down. But the old enchantments made sure it rode through the water in perfect harmony with the wind and waves. There was no hint of age or weakness, just the air of confidence as it sailed along.
He’d walked these decks a hundred times already, and the familiarity helped him push away the foreboding at the back of his mind. On his way, he passed converts who seemed blissfully unaware of the remaining danger. Barclay silently hoped the old magic in this ship held out. Grace seemed pretty confident in the ship’s capacity, but even a luxury noble cruise ship would wear down eventually. He’d certainly never been able to charge the ship himself, and Ulsimore hadn’t even mentioned that as a possibility.
Just as he neared the bridge doorway, he overheard voices coming from the common area near the aft of the boat. Following the familiar pitch of a woman’s voice, he walked past a few staterooms and into a lounge where three people huddled around a small table.
Serin waved her hands in the air as she talked above the other two. “Where are we supposed to go?” she asked at the top of her voice, frustration evident. Catching sight of Barclay, she waved him to the table. “Mr. Barclay, we were just discussing the next course of action. I was hoping you might have some ideas.”
He sauntered to the table, trying to give himself enough time to formulate his thoughts. “Well,” he began, “what we need is to get off the water. Whether we’ve been spotted or not,” he gave Serin a knowing look, “the Union will be looking for us.”
“Why?” a tall woman across the table pleaded. “What does the Union even care about us?”
“Leslie, I take it?” Barclay asked with forced politeness. “They don’t,” he replied bluntly. “Not really.”
“I…sorry, yes. My name is Leslie,” Leslie replied, embarrassed at being named without offering it herself. Shaking her head, she continued, “But then why take us from our beds? Why follow us now?”
He sighed heavily. This is exactly why he broke them out. Converts—and these unlucky purebloods—were just caught up in some Union scheme. “It doesn’t really matter now, but probably has something to do with Behemoth.”
“What!” Serin and Leslie cried out in unison.
“You think I didn’t notice the twigs you and your clan carry around everywhere? The way you called out his name?” He waited a beat, watching both touch something hidden beneath their shirts, hanging at the end of a necklace. “The Union doesn’t recognize the old gods of the loyalists.”
“That’s…” Leslie tried to gather her words. “Who the Union recognizes doesn’t matter. The gods do not require recognition.” She knew, of course, that such worship was forbidden. That’s exactly why they had lived away from fey cities, building their own community.
“I suspect you are right,” Barclay admitted, “but you underestimate the Union. Likelihood is they’d known about your group for a while, scooping you up only when they had a few other things to pick up on the way.” Serin and Leslie shared a concerned glance, so he tried to break the tension. “Look, it doesn’t much matter to me who or what you believe in. I’m already committed to getting through this. But reality is, we’re all criminals now.”
Talmer piped in, “I am no criminal.”
“That’s not the way the Union sees it,” Barclay reminded him. “Free fey aren’t placed in manacles and collars.”
“This is ridiculous,” Talmer replied calmly. “We do not need to keep running, nor even hide. My father, the Duke of Volget, need only be contacted. This is naught but a misunderstanding.” He offered a charming smile to the women around the table. “I assure you, he can clear up this folly.”
Serin scrunched up her face, unable to hide her disdain. “You don’t know that.”
Talmer brushed back a lock of his perfectly combed black hair, seemingly unperturbed by the disagreement. “As eighth son of the duke, I know his mind well. He will not stand for the wrongful imprisonment of such a valuable son as myself.” He chuckled to himself. “It will be a great surprise if he does not see all our captors terminated for their mistake.”
“That assumes he really gives a shit—” Serin started before the taller woman grabbed her shoulder firmly.
“Now isn’t the time,” Leslie admonished. Serin spun around, mild hurt clear in her tense lips. Leslie closed her eyes and shook her head sadly. Serin relented, crossing her arms and remaining silent.
Barclay took the pause to jump back in. “We can’t sit around hoping for anyone to come save us, even your daddy.” Talmer frowned, but Barclay continued. “I told Serin, but we’re being hunted right now. The Entregon was scheduled to transport you and your friends this morning. Even if the Union didn’t care about you, that ship isn’t the type to give up a meal.”
“A meal?” Talmer gasped. “That is…not possible.”
After Serin’s less-than-serious response, Barclay was glad someone on this ship understood the gravity of the situation. “It’s more than possible. The GPS is already tracking it behind u
s. We’ve got a decent lead, but nothing that beast couldn’t make up if it wants to.”
Leslie furrowed her brow. “What does that mean, a meal?”
Barclay sighed. “The Entregon is its real name, but I suppose you kids might know it by something a little more fancy. The Ship of the Damned?”
“Behemoth protect us,” Leslie whispered. She cleared her throat before asking, “You mean, the ship said to have devoured the loyalist navy almost single-handedly?”
“I’m glad we understand each other now,” Barclay agreed solemnly. He caught the chagrined frown on Serin’s face.
“You should have just said that the first time,” she argued. “What kid didn’t have their parents tell them to behave or else The Ship of the Damned would come to eat them?”
“Why did you not mention this earlier?” Talmer demanded. “We must get out of here!”
Barclay raised an eyebrow, unsure of the sudden turn in Talmer’s mood. “When should I have told you? When we were on the docks where it could have caused a panic? Maybe while I was knocked out on the bridge?”
“This is no joking matter,” Talmer added sternly.
“No,” Barclay agreed, “it’s not. So let’s get to the point. As I said already, we need to get off the water.”
“And where exactly shall we go?” Talmer demanded.
“I’m not liking your tone, duke’s son.” Barclay squared his stance, not bothering to entertain Talmer’s demands. “I haven’t heard a single idea from you since we met. Yet you’re going to stand there and play at taking charge? You would do well to remember the only reason you aren’t already sitting in the belly of that monster.”
Talmer clenched his fists, bringing magic to his hands. His eyes flicked to his knuckles as he realized he was still weakened from his imprisonment. He cut the flow of magic quickly. He schooled his features into a look of apathy before waving his hand. “You have my thanks. There is no need to become confrontational.”
“There shouldn’t be,” Barclay replied seriously. He waited a beat, but Talmer looked away dismissively. He let his own blood cool before turning away from the trio. “I’m going to find some place to make landfall. You all can discuss your own plans from there.” He marched out the door, leaving the purebloods speechless.