Eternal Seas

by Lexi Rees

  “A thrilling and magical adventure with plenty of hair-raising chases and a villain readers will love to hate. ETERNAL SEAS is a must-read for young fantasy fans.”

  Madeline Dyer, author of the Untamed series

  “Eternal Seas is a compelling adventure that weaves mystery and intrigue into a tantalising plot for the reader to enjoy. The writing has a lyrical quality and almost seems to capture the movement of the sea as the story unfolds. A very enjoyable read.”

  Jude Lennon, author of Hal and the End Street,

  the Lamby series and other children’s books

  “An exciting debut novel by Lexi Rees that takes us on a roller coaster adventure ride over high seas to mysterious places and brims with magic and intrigue. Young readers will love this book.”

  Shalbey Bellaman, author of Dragons in the

  Looking Glass and Jack in the Wallows

  Eternal Seas

  Lexi Rees

  Copyright © 2018 Lexi Rees

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 9781789012552

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For Finlay,

  my inspiration.

  “Difficulties are just things

  to overcome, after all.”

  Ernest Shackleton, explorer, 1874 – 1922

  Contents

  Prologue

  Smugglers

  Challenge

  Lost

  Gone

  Mistake

  Hidden

  Storm

  Witch-doctor

  Secrets

  Vision

  Betrayed

  Hunted

  Captured

  Girl

  Tunnels

  Ruins

  Elders

  Prophecy

  Reviews

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Defeated by the Earth Lords during the Last War, the other clans were forced deep into hiding, locking away their powers in mysterious relics.

  As the centuries passed, people forgot these powers ever existed. They faded into myths and legends, bedtime stories for children about magical people who could control the waves and walk amongst the clouds.

  Today we go about our daily lives, unaware of how ordinary we have become.

  But not everyone forgot.

  The guardians, who protect the relics, did not forget.

  The clan elders, who wait patiently, did not forget.

  And Sir Waldred, the ruthless leader of the Earth Lords, will never forget. He will not stop until the relics are found … and destroyed. Only then will his reign be unchallenged. Forever.

  We didn’t know it that morning, but our lives were about to become much less ordinary, and a lot more dangerous.

  ONE

  Smugglers

  My lungs cry for air.

  ‘How long was I down there?’

  My sister, Aria, checks her watch. ‘That was almost eleven minutes, Finn. You’re weird. Nobody can hold their breath that long.’

  ‘That’s my best ever,’ I say.

  I splash around in the gentle waves, relishing the push and pull of the tide against my skin, the water as warm as a bath.

  ‘I reckon I can do even longer … time me again.’ Without waiting for a reply, I sink.

  Her muffled voice filters through the water. ‘Wave at me or something this time so I know you’re OK.’

  Determined to break fifteen minutes, I settle cross-legged at the bottom of the sea like a Buddhist monk. One minute … two minutes … five minutes. Time slides past.

  I roll over onto the sandy seabed. Tiny, translucent crabs chase each other round a pile of rocks.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, prodding one and forcing it to stop. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Run round rock.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Must run. Everyone running,’ it says, panting. ‘Running from something. Running to something. Don’t matter, still running.’

  ‘I’m not running.’

  ‘Course you running! Maybe you not know yet, but the sea knows. The sea watches you. The sea fears for you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, but he’s wriggled free and scuttled off down a hole. Something brushes lightly against my foot. A luminous fish nibbles my big toe. It tickles. I laugh, and it darts away.

  The dark curve of the hull of our home, a boat called the Alcina, floats several metres above me. Aria’s wobbly outline shimmers in the ripples as she hangs over the polished wood railing on the side of the boat. Her long white hair flutters in the wind. She looks so like Mum, I choke back a sob. She waves wildly at me. Something’s wrong. I push off and swim upwards.

  The instant my head’s above the water, she starts to babble, ‘Hurry up, Finn, get on board.’ Muttered complaints of, ‘Why is he still in the water?’ and, ‘Why doesn’t he ever help?’ reach me.

  I clamber up the ladder onto the boat. Water droplets fly off in all directions as I shake my head.

  Aria dashes past, stowing away snorkels, masks, flippers, towels, and sunscreen; all the loose items that seem to accumulate on deck when you’re at anchor. She’s still grumbling.

  ‘Hey, that’s not fair!’ I protest, clearing the water out of my ears. ‘I’m out now. Anyway, why are we in such a rush all of a sudden? What’s going on?’

  ‘Dad’s got to pick up a parcel. He’s almost ready to lift the anchor. Come on, slow coach,’ she says, grabbing my arm and dragging me along behind her.

  Dad’s waiting at the wheel. His white hair tucked under a baseball cap and his shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing pale forearms. Despite spending all day outdoors, he never seems to tan.

  The windlass groans as it yanks the anchor loose and then we’re free. The Alcina skips and dances as we turn into the wind to raise the main sail. I cartwheel across the deck, landing as lightly as a cat. Aria glowers at me, her hands on her hips.

  Dad sets the course and leaves us at the helm.

  ‘Aria, did Dad say anything about the pick-up?’ I ask, studying the compass.

  ‘No, nothing at all,’ she says, tapping the glass. The compass needle wobbles, but then settles back where it was.

  East.

  We stare at it for a while.

  Still east.

  ‘Dad, why are we going east?’ Aria calls. ‘Are we not doing the usual route?’

  ‘No, not this time. We’ve got a new route. The pickup location is in Izmarli,’ Dad says, busying himself with a pile of charts.

  ‘Izmarli?�
� I ask. ‘But you swore you’d never set foot on that island. You said it’s full of trackers and bounty hunters.’

  ‘It is. Zooming around on their jet-ships and motorbikes, terrorising the locals. Pretending to help the authorities catch criminals when it’s them that are the real trouble makers …’ Dad thumps the chart table.

  ‘Do we really have to go there?’ Aria asks. ‘What if they catch us?’

  ‘Yes, we do. Don’t worry though. They won’t catch us. Nobody knows these routes as well as we do,’ Dad says with a tight lipped smile.

  Sunlight bounces off the compass, illuminating the silver needle. Then it hits me … he’s wrong. This is not a route we know: those routes are far enough off the beaten track to keep us safe, and familiar enough that we know every hiding spot. This new route is dangerous. I open my mouth to argue, but Dad glares at me and jerks his thumb in Aria’s direction. I close it again.

  ‘So, once we pick up the parcel from Izmarli, where’s the delivery?’ Aria asks, apparently reassured by Dad’s comment about the route.

  ‘New London.’

  ‘N-N-New L-London?’ Aria stammers. Enclosed by the high stone city walls since the Last War, strangers are forbidden to enter. ‘Dad, you know how much they hate strangers, especially smugglers. Why would you take us there?’

  ‘It’s a job,’ Dad says.

  ‘Do we need the money?’ I ask, frowning.

  ‘It’s a bit more complicated than that, Finn. One day you’ll understand. I have no choice,’ he says, turning his back on us and fiddling with the sails.

  Aria and I sit in silence. She twists a chunk of hair into a tight ringlet and chews the end. After a while, she turns to me. ‘I don’t get it. Why’s Dad taking us to New London? It’s too dangerous. It’s not worth the risk.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. Dad will have it all worked out.’ I put my arm around her shoulders. ‘Hey, your muscles are getting big! Where have you put my skinny little sister?’

  ‘Haha,’ she says, punching me playfully. ‘You should do more work on the boat if you want muscles.’ She lets go of the twisted strand and it drops back into the smooth white curtain of hair. ‘Bet I could beat you at an arm wrestle now.’ She holds her arm up in challenge.

  ‘Challenge accepted. On the count of three. Ready? One … two …’

  She smashes my hand onto the deck.

  ‘You cheated. I didn’t say three. I wasn’t ready,’ I protest. ‘Let’s go again.’

  ‘No chance.’

  She lies back on the deck, smirking. I flop down next her. Thin white clouds scurry across the sky, dragged by the wind on an unknown journey.

  Aria pushes herself upright. ‘I don’t like this route. I’m scared.’

  ‘Look, don’t worry. I reckon he’s been planning this for ages. You know how he’s been buried in his cabin for weeks, this is what he must have been organising.’

  ‘Suppose so,’ she says. ‘At least we can look for Mum when we’re in Izmarli. Maybe someone will have seen her.’

  Mum’s absence cuts me as cold and sharp today as it did on the day she disappeared but I bundle up the emotion and lock it away.

  ‘Aria, she’s gone,’ I say. ‘We don’t know if she’s dead or alive. Even if she is alive, I don’t think she wants to be found. You have to let her go.’

  ‘She’s not dead. I’d know.’

  ‘Aria …’

  She springs to her feet, her eyes blazing. ‘Shut up. You don’t understand. You don’t care about anyone except yourself. I’ll never stop looking for her. Not while there’s a chance she’s still alive.’ She turns on her heel and storms off, slamming the cabin door behind her.

  I sit on deck alone, thinking about Mum, while the sun slides towards the horizon. The hours pass and the waves of pain retreat into the gaping hole in my heart.

  Aria hasn’t come out of her cabin. I haul myself upright and tap on her door. ‘Aria, I’m sorry.’

  Silence.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘I know you’re mad at me, but I really am sorry. I miss her too. Please can I come in?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk to you. I won’t give up on Mum. She wouldn’t give up on us.’

  ‘I know. You’re right. I’ll help you look for her in Izmarli.’

  ‘I don’t need your help, Finn. I’ll find her myself.’

  ‘I’m going to help anyway,’ I say to the door. ‘Please let me in …’

  Nothing.

  I try a different topic. ‘I wanted to ask you about the parcel …’

  The door opens a crack, curiosity defeating the sulk.

  ‘It must be a very special job,’ she says, sticking her head out. Her hair is all mussed up and her eyes are red and puffy.

  She opens the door wider and lets me inside her long, narrow cabin. A brightly painted mural runs along one wall: giant eagles and gliding albatross, colourful hummingbirds and cheerful robins, strutting crows and swooping seagulls, mythical dodos and sea-green scaled dragons. Everything else in the room is pure white: white wooden floorboards, white bedspread, white cushions.

  ‘Do you think the parcel might be gold?’ I ask.

  ‘No. I don’t think so,’ she says. ‘Dad won’t take the risk of carrying gold anymore. The pirates can track it too easily. They’d attack us, and we don’t have any weapons on board.’ She laughs, ‘Your penknife doesn’t count.’

  ‘It does,’ I joke back, ‘but your bow and arrow doesn’t.’ I pull a face at her and scramble out of reach. She chases after me, shrieking. We sprint up onto the deck, scampering up and down the rigging in a three-dimensional game of tag until we collapse, panting.

  But that night, the parcel haunts my dreams. What could it be? What could be so important that Dad would put us in such danger?

  TWO

  Challenge

  The voyage passes quietly. Small islands stud the sea along the route; soil and tree trunks blending together into a rusty orange colour. Thirsty-looking, silvery-green leaves dot the tree branches. Stony beaches line the tiny bays where we anchor at night.

  Each morning, after breakfast, we pull up the anchor and set sail. East and further east. The winds hold steady. Despite the danger, I’m looking forward to visiting Izmarli.

  I finish another book and cram it onto a shelf. Stretching out on my bed, I look around my cabin. It’s an odd shape, tucked into the bow of the boat, tapering gently to a point. Light streams through the portholes, landing in golden circles on the wooden walls. The mottled green leather top of a battered desk is just visible under piles of books, papers and trinkets. Clothes tumble onto the floor from partially open drawers, their brass handles dulled with age. My favourite painting hangs lopsidedly above my bed.

  With a burst of activity, I sit up, swing my legs off the bed and crawl underneath. Somewhere, amongst the tatty trainers, odd socks and discarded toys, is a stash of unread books. While I’m searching through the mess, a muffled cry from the deck reaches me, ‘Land ahoy.’

  I wriggle backwards out of the hole and race up on deck to look, beating Aria by a few seconds. Dense jungle encircles a vast mountain. A huge waterfall cascades down one side of the mountain.

  ‘That’s the weirdest looking island I’ve ever seen,’ I say. ‘Where’s the harbour?’

  ‘It’s through there.’ Dad points at a narrow slit in the rocks.

  Inside, it opens into another world. A bustling port wraps around the wide bay, almost tumbling over the harbour walls and into the sea in its enthusiasm for life.

  We pick our way through the jumble of old wooden boats, their once bright paint faded and flaking. Fishing nets and lobster pots lie in reeking piles, the pungent aroma of rotten fish wafting off them. Scruffy dogs run loose. Stray cats sunbathe on the rocks, waiting lazily for the fishermen to th
row them scraps. Aria will no doubt feed them later.

  ‘Can I helm this time, please Dad?’ Aria asks.

  ‘No, you’re better at handling the ropes,’ Dad says firmly.

  Aria pulls a face at me and stomps off.

  ‘Astern,’ Dad yells.

  I spin the dark wooden wheel. Despite the size of the boat, she’s easy to manoeuvre.

  A crowd of locals and tourists gather to watch us. Shopkeepers jostle each other, holding up wicker baskets overflowing with fresh fruit and vegetables. Grown-ups with sunburnt faces sweat in the heat. Street urchins try to pilfer sweets and toys from the market stalls. The whole mob seems to crave some drama to break up the day. Falling in the water whilst trying to jump ashore would result in peals of laughter. Crashing into another boat would draw cries of ‘oooh’ and ‘aaah’. Even just a lot of shouting would make them smile.

  Aria leaps off the boat and onto the quay. She heaves on our mooring lines and secures them to the rusty iron rings on the harbour wall. We’ve done this a gazillion times and our routine is slick, choreographed to precision through years of practice. It’s not long before we’re safely tied up against the harbour wall. In the absence of any drama, the crowd loses interest and drifts off.

  On shore, Aria stands with her feet planted apart, hands on her hips. She breathes in deeply. ‘I do like sailing, well except when I get seasick, but honestly nothing beats those first few steps ashore after a long trip.’

  ‘Got to disagree there, Aria,’ I say. ‘I could happily live on the sea and never set foot on land.’

  She pulls a face at me.

  ‘Dad, can we get honey ice?’ I ask, my tongue tingling. There’s no freezer on the boat so it’s a luxury. Mum used to buy them for us as a treat. Even though she’s gone, it’s still part of the ritual when we arrive in port.