Spirit of the Sea

by Keith Walter

  He knocked twice, the sound low and strong, another indication of the door’s make. He waited several seconds before Grace appeared. She didn’t have the same look of concealed hurt from last time. “How’s our guest?” he asked.

  Grace smiled sardonically. “Much better, actually. Now that I’ve gotten more practice around his runework, I’ve been able to drastically improve the healing.”

  “So what kind of shape is he in?” Barclay asked, getting to the point.

  Grace looked at the floor guiltily. “I’ve put him to sleep for now, but his body is probably healthy enough for him to move around on his own.” She rubbed her hands together. “I was just worried that he might—”

  “I get it,” Barclay interjected, saving Grace from voicing her fears. He reached out tentatively, patting the young woman’s shoulder once. “Look, I need to talk to him. It may actually be better for now if I could do that alone.”

  She let out a relieved breath. “Okay,” she began, now running a hand through her hair. “I can wait out here then.”

  “Is it just a simple spell?” Barclay asked seriously. “Or do I need you to wake him up?”

  Grace snapped her fingers, and her eyes glowed briefly. “There’s a switch next to his bed that controls the spell. Flip it up and he’ll awaken.”

  “Thanks, kid.” Barclay was still wrapping his head around Grace. Fey at her level didn’t tend to keep much company with folks like himself and this crew. Fey nobility tended to see themselves as above the rabble, practically a different species altogether. Grace was nothing like that, a legitimately kind and concerned soul. Of all the people in the wrong place at the wrong time, he somehow felt most upset about her.

  He stepped inside the little room no longer lit by a dirty window. The room was wider and a bit taller than before, about fifteen feet on each side. A soft fluorescent glow from the middle of the ceiling illuminated everything. The shelves now covered just two walls, and there was no window to be found. The cot under Charles was gone, replaced by a soft-looking twin bed with matching sheets and skirt. The beat up old desk he’d barely seen in the room the first time now sat next to the door, clearly wider and shinier than before. Barclay approached the bed, finding a simple light switch just above the headboard. He closed his eyes briefly before flipping the switch.

  ◆◆◆

  Charles eyes opened slowly, a familiar grogginess lifting from his mind. The moment light reached his eyes, he pulsed his own power through his system to clear out the remnants of the spell. He had been a jerk, he knew, but he hadn’t expected Grace to put him under like that. When the room started changing around him and he could feel that soothing blue energy throughout the entire ship, he knew immediately what was happening. Grace was a fey ship. He had actually been looking forward to her return then, but felt the cool darkness of a sleep spell creep in. In retrospect, he couldn’t really blame her.

  “Charles,” Barclay called emotionlessly, drawing the younger man’s attention.

  Charles turned his head and locked eyes with the old sailor. In just that simple motion, he realized his body was nearly fully healed. Knowing what Grace was now, that realization didn’t surprise him. “Barclay,” he replied monotonously.

  “We need to talk,” the older man declared.

  Charles closed his eyes and purposely tried to settle back into his pillow. “I really don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “Necessary?” Barclay rolled the word in his mouth. “You are either with me or against me. We both know I can’t afford for you to give away our position. I need assets to get us out of here, I want you to be one of those.”

  Charles stared at the old fey and narrowed his eyes. “What makes you think I’m interested in helping? I do pretty well on my own.”

  “I’m not here to play games,” Barclay replied. “I’m here to decide what to do with you.” Charles raised an eyebrow at the thinly veiled threat, but said nothing. “And you’re not going to make it easy for me, are you?” Barclay asked with a roll of his eyes.

  Charles looked away. “I’m not trying to be difficult.”

  “Just comes natural for you then,” Barclay replied sarcastically. “I have seen you work, so I want to like you. I can see you know how to handle yourself. I can tell your last talk with Grace didn’t go over so well, and I think it’s because we both understand the situation a little differently than the others.” Rounding his piercing gaze on the young man, Barclay forced Charles to meet his eyes. “You understand what is at stake here, not just for you but for everyone. If we can’t come to some sort of agreement, you can understand how I might just leave you asleep for the rest of the trip.”

  Charles mumbled a curse under his breath, not sure if it was directed at himself or Barclay. “Fine,” he replied firmly. “Let’s talk.”

  “Good,” Barclay mumbled. “I’ll get right down to it. I get that you are a criminal, somebody actually worth the Union’s time. But you also have some moral code in you, enough that you were willing to help us out without question. Enough that you were willing to sacrifice yourself so the rest could escape.”

  “That might be a bit overstated. The situation didn’t really go as I had planned,” Charles replied, trying his best to look calm.

  “So you did have a plan before you decided to try and give it all up,” Barclay continued, finishing the comment. He poked Charles in the chest hard, right where he knew the scars were. “I’m guessing you’ve had rough life for a long time. You’ve fought and bled. And I’m guessing with that attitude of yours, a lot of that was your own damn fault.”

  Charles’s chest throbbed like a large bruise that wouldn’t heal. He frowned and looked away, staring at the far wall. “That was a long time ago.”

  “I thought as much,” Barclay agreed. “Which only makes you more interesting, you see. A fey with a pierced heart shouldn’t last more than a month. Even if it doesn’t kill them outright, their bodies have a nasty tendency to…pop.” He waited a beat for Charles to comment, but when he didn’t, Barclay continued. “It would seem you found a bit of a workaround, building a shell of runework to keep that power inside. And yet, you’re able to go out and fight a battalion of soldiers last night and still survive. That’s not something just anyone can do; that takes skill.”

  Charles refused to look the older man in the eyes, but insisted, “I wouldn’t have. Had I ended anywhere but here with a fey ship trying to heal me, I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t have happened.”

  “She told you?” Barclay studied the man for a moment. “No, you figured it out yourself.”

  The younger fey finally turned his gaze upon Barclay, a quizzical expression on his face. “I’m not blind, I could see her energy as the cabin changed.”

  Barclay mused over that. Grace certainly wouldn’t have shared her story with this man, and most random fey wouldn’t have recognized a fey ship just from a little renovation in their room. Charles was quite a bit more experienced than he led on. “No, I suppose you aren’t. So tell me, how much you do see?”

  There it was, the question Charles never wanted to answer. He saw too much. “I see how the Union treats those at the bottom in this new society. I see the way the authorities delight in burying dissenters. I see the naivety in the ‘crew’ of this ship. I see where this escape is heading.”

  “You sound pretty confident,” Barclay replied softly, trying to encourage Charles to keep talking.

  “I know,” Charles replied, looking at the ceiling pensively. “Once upon a time, I was a Union man. I saw it firsthand.”

  Vagueness aside, Barclay zeroed in on one detail. Young fey didn’t talk like that. A Union man was the propaganda on every enlistment notice during the war. “So you’re military,” he stated. Ignoring Charles’s suspicious glance, he added, “It fits your greeting, your actions…” He trailed off as he thought about others who couldn’t handle the war even after it ended. “You fought in the revolution, then.”

  Charles frowned,
not liking Barclay’s perceptive nature. “Yeah,” he admitted, “back when I had something to give.” He tapped a finger to his chest.

  Barclay sighed. He wasn’t the kind of man that demanded, or even wanted, to know everyone’s secrets. That he happened to be good at figuring them out was another matter. He knew the kind of things a soldier would want to forget about. But he knew what it took to have fought in the last great war, and it was something he could work with. “It seems like you’ve got a nice little bag of tricks up your sleeve.”

  “I manage,” Charles admitted, unsure of the sudden change in the conversation.

  “I’m going to level with you, Charles. I’ve got a demon on my tail. I’ve got a ship who, for now, is too soft-hearted to know she doesn’t need us. And I’ve got a crew who haven’t got a clue of what’s really going on.” He crossed his arms and closed his eyes. “I’ve been thinking since last night that you are more capable than you want people to know. And right now, I need capable assets.”

  Charles brought his hands together, lacing his fingers as he considered. “What makes you think I won’t just jump ship again? That I’m not playing you now just for another chance?”

  Barclay waved his right hand and rolled his eyes. “You’re not old enough to slip a lie by me. But more, you care about these fey.” He held a hand up at Charles’s disagreeing expression, adding, “You won’t say it, and that’s fine. But everything you’ve done to this point screams out a duty you just can’t shake. You could have taken off on your own once you were free, but you didn’t. You held these fey by the hand and led them onto this ship. You threw yourself at their enemies during our escape. Even when you tried to off yourself, you claimed it was for our benefit.”

  Charles wanted to deny it, wanted to retreat into the safety of not caring. But he couldn’t deny the truth. “Just what do you want from me?”

  Barclay smiled, “I’m working that out, but I needed to make sure we were on the same page.”

  “So that’s it?” the younger main asked incredulously.

  “For now,” Barclay replied, making his way toward the door. “We’re going to be coming into port soon. I’ll need you ready in, say, an hour.”

  “Ready for what?” Charles asked again.

  “You’re a clever one. I’m sure it won’t be anything you can’t handle.” Just before he reached the door, Barclay paused. He turned his head back enough to catch Charles with one eye. “Until then, why don’t you just stay here. Don’t give my best mate any more grief.” That said, he pushed open the door and disappeared.

  Charles did as he was told, staying in the bed and testing his healing body. After an hour, he felt the ship come to a halt, but remained just thinking. The nomad in him screamed to get out and keep moving. This was not the time to stop, as he felt the tension rising in the air. With a rush of energy, he stood from the bed. He was still covered in bandages, so tore them off quickly. His body was almost fully healed, and the bandages would only slow him down.

  When the desk to his side started glowing of its own accord, he couldn’t help but peek inside. That’s where he found a full set of clothes, rather perfectly fitted to his size: jeans, t-shirt, sweatshirt, and work boots. He suspected Barclay had spoken to Grace—these were exactly the kind of bland colors and casual style one would use to blend in with humans. Dressed, he left the room, this time under his own power. Up a flight of stairs, he found himself in a large common area. Just across was a large steel door, which labored to open when he pulled on it. Trudging through, he ended up standing on the main deck, impressed that the ship looked nothing like before.

  He pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, gently rubbing the soft fabric between his fingers. Grace hadn’t returned to the room since his talk with Barclay, but she was still paying attention. He could see through the windows that the ship was surrounded by other vessels, waiting just outside a different dock far more modern than the one he had escaped. Large stacks of shipping containers, like oversized children’s blocks, littered the area. Above them, rusted yellow cranes sat waiting to be brought to life by their human controllers. He could sense a handful of fey on shore, and pulled the strings on his hood to hide his face. He pushed his senses outward, finding Barclay and the rest of the purebloods above. He slunk back inside, noticing a narrow stairway to his right. Silently, he crept up to find the old fey amidst a small group looking at something on a table.

  The bridge was covered on almost three whole sides with great open windows. The heat of frustration rose up in his chest. This wasn’t exactly the best place to hatch a plan, anyone with eyes on shore could be looking in. He let the feeling go as a small chuckle crept from his throat. He thought of how many times he had been in a room with a light on in the past few years: the number was comically low. He waited on the steps briefly, trying to size up the fey

  ◆◆◆

  Barclay wasn’t interested in explaining every detail. While he felt an odd pride in Serin’s constant need to be on top of the situation, he was getting dangerously close to pulling rank. “I understand your concerns,” he said, trying to calm the young elemental.

  “Well, if you understand, then why are you telling us we need to split up? You don’t expect us to just leave Grace here so the Union can capture her?” Serin’s voice rose and her hands became more and more animated.

  “Would you pull yer head outta yer ass?” Barclay said at almost a yell. Leslie opened her mouth to defend the shorter woman, but he silenced the room with a cold stare. “I will take care of Grace. You—” he jabbed a finger in Serin’s face “—need to take care of your family.” He waited several seconds for the tension in the room to dissipate before continuing. “I can get them all off together and…” Barclay trailed off, his eyes catching movement near the stairs. “He’s here,” he announced, ignoring the previous conversation, “so let’s just get on with it.”

  Barclay motioned to Charles, who had shuffled silently behind Serin. The assembled fey glanced behind and Serin nearly jumped. “Sweet Behemoth, when did you get here?” she asked accusingly.

  Charles slid around her and plopped nonchalantly into one of the leather chairs on the bridge. “Oh, I’ve been enjoying the show for a bit now,” he fibbed, smiling deviously. “My favorite part was when your energy spiked just from being told no.” Serin didn’t say a word. Her eyes flashed bright red and began to smolder with wisps of smoke. If Leslie hadn’t grabbed her, Charles was pretty sure the fireworks portion of the show would have started. He chuckled before throwing his hands in the air. “I apologize, I just wanted to see what you would do.”

  “Charles, wasn’t it?” Leslie asked as she tried to calm the situation.

  “I don’t remember you from the trucks,” Serin shot back at him. “What are you here for, anyway?”

  Barclay saw the confusion on Charles’s face and decided to preempt the young man. “He’s one of mine, unlucky enough to get stuck on the docks that night.” The lie seemed the best course of action. He certainly wasn’t going to tell them about Charles most likely being a criminal or the fact that he massacred all the soldiers on the docks. Hearing no pushback he added, “So right now we need to put personal issues aside and work together.”

  Barclay saw anger flash in Serin’s eyes, the young fey clearly perturbed by Charles’s trick. He could only imagine the stress she was under. He knew already she was a woman of action, and the Union coming in to tear up her life must be pushing her close to the edge of her patience and sanity. She seemed to feel his eyes on her and held his gaze for just a moment. Instantly, she stood up straighter and forced herself to calm. He didn’t allow himself to smile, but Barclay found he was glad this woman was aboard. She had the makings of a good ally. Maybe with the right push, she could be even more.

  “Good. Let’s get down to business,” Barclay said as he pulled out a pen and began circling spots on the map. “The Entregon is behind us. Right now, it seems to be headed for the spot where Charles here fell overbo
ard.” He nodded at Grace, adding, “Grace is confident that the monster won’t catch wind of us from this far out, but it’s only a matter of time before even she can’t keep us hidden. We have just a small window to get everyone out of here safely.”

  Barclay noted Serin’s and Leslie’s concern. “Now I am not suggesting that everyone simply jumps overboard and makes a run for it.” He sighed, unsure if he should even admit this. “I have contacts at these docks, favors enough to have them ignore us until we can get something safer.” He tried to force a polite smile. “There’s a bus depot in the city. It’ll take everyone together to a train station farther south, something little-used and with minimal oversight. From there, it’s not more than a few transfers all the way south to the Republic.”

  “The Republic?” Leslie incredulously. “You mean the wastelands. The whole territory is nothing but thieves and criminals.”

  “Like us,” Barclay replied sharply. He watched Leslie look down, silently accepting the truth. “Nobody there will ask questions. And even if you do let something slip, they’d probably see it as a badge of honor that we’re fugitives from the north.” He sighed heavily. “Look, I understand that it’s not ideal, but it’s the only real option. Were it just you lot,” he said, motioning to the fey standing with him on the bridge, “I’d say we ride Grace all the way to the old country, claim sanctuary even if we hate their guts. But you know what happens to converts in the old country.”

  “That’s not an option,” Leslie broke in seriously.

  “No. It’s not,” Barclay agreed. “And there’s no way to get there by water without crossing into the territory of the Ancients. This is the best option if you want to restart somewhere without looking over your shoulder the rest of your life.”