by Traci Chee
As he drifted back into consciousness, Archer could feel all of his cuts and bruises, the little stones beneath his bedroll, and the morning breeze with the kind of clarity he hadn’t experienced since his time on the Current of Faith.
It was like the violence from the previous night had washed him clean.
He opened his eyes.
Most of the others were already up—walking the perimeter, sorting supplies, rinsing in the creek.
There, Sefia stood calf-deep in the water, her trousers rolled to her knees. As she dipped her fingers and ran them through her hair, drops trickled down her shoulders to the backs of her hands, falling into the water like beads of light.
He would’ve given anything to trace those rivers along the length of her arms, his touch lingering on the bends of her elbows, her knuckles and nail beds. Or to kneel before her in the cold creek, sliding water up her calves with his cupped palms.
Maybe one day, when he’d stopped enough impressors, when he’d saved enough boys, when he was finally good enough for her, he would.
She glanced up. He knew that look—focused, determined, daring. He’d seen it over and over again as they tracked Hatchet and his impressors through Oxscini. As they’d do again, in Deliene, with Frey and the boys, if he could enlist their help.
He packed away his blanket and made his way to the makeshift kitchen, where two of the boys were sitting. One of them—Griegi, with curly hair and freckles like cinnamon—looked up and smiled, making his round cheeks even rounder. “I started some coffee brewing last night,” he said, slathering rolls with jam. “Though I could’ve done better if we’d had a fire.”
Scarza, the boy beside him, set down a piece of the rifle he’d been taking apart. “I can’t wait till you actually cook something for us,” he said, “and we see if it stands up to all your big talk.”
Griegi smiled. “It will.”
With a soft chuckle, Scarza began dismantling the gun again. Missing his left hand and the lower part of his left arm, he’d brace the weapon against his elbow or sling it over his shoulder to get it to come apart, his right hand moving so quickly along the stock it was like the pieces came flying off on their own.
“You’re good,” Archer said, filling two cups with cold coffee.
“At fieldstripping a rifle, or doing it one-handed?”
“Both.”
Scarza lifted his eyes briefly. Strong and dark-skinned, he was maybe twenty, the eldest of them all, though not old enough for his close-cropped silver hair. “Been dealing with guns since I could talk. Been one-handed since I was born.”
“Guess that means you can shoot too.”
Scarza didn’t brag, like someone else might have. He just nodded and continued taking the rifle apart, the sharp clicks of metal rattling around them.
Archer sipped at the coffee. Griegi had added extra ingredients to it—spices, nutmeg maybe. Something deep and rich.
“You brewed this cold?” he asked.
Humming contentedly, Griegi drizzled a sweet-smelling glaze over the rolls. “Yep. It’s an old recipe of my grandpa’s. Didn’t have half the ingredients, but I made do.”
“Sometimes Grieg kept us all fed on descriptions of his grandpa’s cooking,” Scarza said. His hair glinted almost white in the morning sun.
Griegi blushed nearly as red as his curls at the compliment.
In the ensuing silence, Versil, the boy with the dagger, danced up to Archer and relieved him of his second mug. “That for me?” he asked, laughing.
“It was supposed to be Kaito’s.”
“Oops.” The boy wrinkled his nose and the white patches of skin on his face bunched. “Eh. You just tell him Aljan took it.”
“I thought you were Versil.”
The lanky boy laughed again. “I am. Aljan’s over there.” He pointed to the creek, where another broomstick-slender boy was sitting in the sand, staring absently into space. Except for the dashes of white on Versil’s face and palms, the brothers could have been mirror images of each other.
“I know it’s hard to tell us apart,” Versil said cheerily. “Just remember, I’m the better-looking one. I’m also taller, smarter, funnier—”
“And you have a bigger mouth,” Scarza added wryly.
Beaming, Versil poured another cup of coffee and handed it to Archer with a flourish. “For Kaito.”
Tipping the mug at him, Archer left them for the edge of the clearing, where Kaito was making the rounds.
Unlike the others, however, he looked no better for a night of freedom. The skin beneath his eyes was swollen with lack of sleep and a bruise purpled one of his cheeks.
“You look wrecked,” Archer said as he joined him.
“Yeah. And I still look better than you.”
With a grin, he passed Kaito the second mug and fell into step beside him. Kaito’s attention was everywhere, flitting from the willows to the sky to the large blue dragonflies flicking past on translucent wings. The rest of him was always in movement too, plucking leaves from the bushes, scooping up handfuls of stones and skipping them one by one across the water, drumming out frenetic rhythms on the pommel of his sword. He even drank fast, downing most of Griegi’s coffee in a few quick gulps. For a few minutes, it was like they were any other boys, hiking along a creek in search of fish, freshwater roots, or mischief.
“So,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, “you made it all the way to the Cage.”
And just like that, Archer was brought back to reality. They weren’t like other boys. They were a breed apart, bonded by what they’d had to do to survive. Nodding, he turned his cup in his hands.
“Who’d you fight?”
“A boy named Haku and a boy named Gregor.” Both of them wounded but alive the last time he saw them, bleeding in the sawdust.
Kaito cursed and ran his fingers through his curls a couple of times. “I knew Gregor,” he said. “He killed one of ours.”
“I didn’t kill him, though.”
“Uh-huh. Then you met Serakeen?”
Archer nodded again.
“You lucky dog!” The boy leapt on him, all arms. Coffee splashed the tips of Archer’s boots. “What I would’ve given to be you!”
“I didn’t kill him either.” Shoving Kaito away, Archer couldn’t help but laugh at his exuberance. How the boy could switch so easily from one mood to another—pensive, gleeful, hot with fury—was beyond him.
But he liked it.
“Wouldn’t expect anything else of a lumberjack,” Kaito said. “The only thing Oxscinians are good at killing is trees.”
Though it wasn’t home anymore, Archer felt a flare of pride in the Forest Kingdom. He roughed up Kaito’s hair, and they scuffled good-naturedly for few seconds, kicking up gravel. “Tell that to everybody we conquered in the Expansion,” Archer said, pulling the boy into a headlock.
“Never met any!” Kaito declared as he ducked out of Archer’s grasp. “You never even got close to Gorman.”
Archer allowed himself a grin as they continued their circuit of the perimeter. He’d had friends like this, once, friends to needle and wrestle and banter. Friends who understood you beyond words. He might’ve known Kaito for less than a day, but it was like they’d been friends their whole lives.
He hoped the boy would come with them.
In fact, Archer couldn’t imagine hunting the impressors without him.
At the center of the clearing, most of the others had gathered around the fire, digging into the breakfast Griegi had prepared. Versil stole a roll from his brother’s plate, but was soon so distracted by the story he was telling that he stopped eating altogether.
“How quickly they forget,” Kaito said.
Before Archer could reply, there was a voice above them, in the willows: “Not all of us.”
He looked up to find F
rey lounging in the branches, her legs dangling over their heads.
“How long’ve you been up there?” Kaito asked.
“Long enough to hear you insulting me and all my family,” she said, swinging down between them with the grace of someone who’d spent her life in the treetops.
The Gormani boy grinned. “Aw, c’mon, Frey, you know I didn’t mean Shinjai lumberjacks—”
“Uh-huh.” Waving him off, she went to join the others.
“She’s from Shinjai?” Archer asked.
“Whole family of lumberjacks. Her parents were killed in a logging accident when she was seven. She was basically raised by her three older brothers.” Kaito paused. “I should’ve known she’d be in a tree. Trees were almost all she talked about when we were in the crates. That’s where she went when her parents died, you know. Whenever something bad happened, she’d find a tree to climb. She said it made her feel safe.”
They fell silent again, and the shorter boy eyed Archer appraisingly. “So . . .” he began after a moment. “What’d you and the sorcerer decide? Do I get to kill some more impressors today?”
“Not today.”
Kaito’s expression fell.
“But maybe soon, if you’ll join us,” Archer said. “There are three crews left in Deliene, after all.”
The boy’s reaction came immediately—in the widening of his pupils, the lightening of the shadows in his green eyes. It was like he was waking for the first time that morning. “I’m in,” he said.
Archer let out a relieved laugh. Of course Kaito was in. “Even if we turn over any survivors to the law?”
Kaito clapped him on the shoulder. “Brother, if you give me even the smallest chance at killing impressors, I’ll follow you anywhere.”
“It’ll be dangerous,” Archer said, though he could already anticipate Katio’s reply.
The boy bared his teeth in what passed for a grin. “It better be.”
As they rejoined the others, the talk died down. Frey and the boys looked up at them expectantly.
Clearing his throat, Archer described their plan: hunt down the remaining impressors in Deliene, free the rest of the boys, and make sure none of the impressors showed their faces in the Northern Kingdom again.
First they had to turn over their current prisoners in the nearest town. After that, there’d be three crews left.
Three crews to fight.
“You should go home, if you can, but if you’re like me, well . . .” he paused. “This is the only way forward for me.”
Frey and the boys were silent, mulling over what he’d said. What he’d proposed and the purpose he offered them. A purpose, maybe, for their suffering.
Or out of it.
Aljan, the quieter of the twins, glanced nervously at Sefia. “Will the sorcerer be with us?”
When she answered, she wasn’t looking at the tall boy but at Archer, her gaze steady as an arrow, ready for flight. “I’m with you,” she said.
Archer smiled.
“We’re all with you, brother.” Standing, Kaito bowed his head and crossed his forearms.
Scarza did the same. One by one, the others joined them.
Startled, Archer recognized the gesture: It was an old Delienean salute from the ancient Gormani clans in the north. A sign of respect warriors made when saluting their captains. He’d seen old Goro and some of the other sailors on the Current do it to Captain Reed, once or twice.
Turn over the prisoners.
Three crews left.
Bowing his head, he saluted them back.
CHAPTER 6
That’s What You’re Remembered For
Liccaro had always been known as the Desert Kingdom—an island crescent of sand dunes and red rock wilderness—but it hadn’t always been wretched. Its people hadn’t always been stricken by poverty; its regents hadn’t always been corrupt; and it hadn’t always been prey to pirates like Serakeen, Scourge of the East.
Once, it had been so prosperous you could stroll through its creek beds picking up gemstones and nuggets of gold. People used to come from every corner of Kelanna for the art, the jewelry, the palaces bedecked in mosaics of lapis and malachite.
But everything changed when the last Liccarine monarch, King Fieldspar, seized all his kingdom’s amassed wealth and sailed off in a fleet of gilded galleons that would have eclipsed the splendor of Captain Dimarion’s Crux tenfold.
According to legend, the king’s men took a fortnight to bury all the treasure, deep in an underground labyrinth where no one could find it. When they were done, the king ordered all but his own crew into the caves, where he barricaded them inside and left them to rot, their bones standing watch over the Trove for the rest of time.
He scuttled his galleons, sparing only his flagship, the Desert Gold, and set off for the capital. But on the return journey, the Gold sank in the treacherous waters of the Ephygian Bay. The king and all his sailors were drowned.
Some thought the Trove was lost forever.
Others said the king had inscribed its location inside the bell of the Desert Gold, now resting somewhere in the depths of the bay.
For generations, treasure hunters had searched for the bell, braving the maze of sandbars and submerged peaks, searching the wrecks beneath the turquoise waves.
But no one had found it. No one even knew where to begin looking.
Until now.
The bell may have remained with the sunken ship, but the clapper had been carried by the currents all the way across the Central Sea, where it had washed up on some distant shore, a perfect prize for beachcombers and curious children. Since then it had been traded, sold, and traded again, passing from one kingdom to another only to end up in a tavern of liars, where Captain Reed and his crew had stolen it.
For, unbeknownst to any of its previous owners, there was more to the clapper than fine handiwork and verdigris.
The clapper, like many objects in Kelanna, was magic. And when you brought it near its bell, they would call to each other—strike the clapper and the bell would cry out, lonely and wild, for its missing tongue.
After that, all you had to do was follow the sound to the wreck of the Gold.
Another man might have wanted the Trove itself—the greatest hoard in Kelanna. Dimarion certainly did. But for Reed it had never been about treasure.
It was about glory. A way to keep his memory alive when his body was nothing but ash.
But after meeting the liars in the Crossbars back in Jahara, he couldn’t help but wonder which version of him would survive—Cannek Reed, adventurer and treasure seeker, or some selfish, flamboyant outlaw he wouldn’t recognize, face-to-face at high noon?
Was it enough to live on in legend if the legends were lies?
Captain Reed rubbed his wrist, where his bare skin stood out like a bracelet among the tattooed images of ships and storms, skulls and ancient sea creatures. Every adventure he’d ever had was inked on his skin, along his arms and around his torso—except one.
The edge of the world.
The place of the fleshless.
The hairs on the back of Reed’s neck rose as he remembered the cold, the way it had sucked the warmth out of him like a leech. Deep in his memory, he heard the echo of voices—inhuman, half-shriek and half-thunder—calling him into the black water.
Could he build a legacy grand enough—when only some of it was true—to overcome that?
He tapped his fingers eight times on the edge of the longboat, listening hard. Navigating the snarls of coral and shifting shallows of the Ephygian Bay was so dangerous they’d taken to the rowboats like mayflies on the water, searching for the Desert Gold.
To the west, the Current rested easily on the sea, her green hull reflected by the waves, her tree-shaped figurehead spiraling up the bowsprit into the sweltering sky. Beside her lay Dimarion’s ship, t
he Crux—a monstrous golden vessel with a diamond at its prow.
From the deck of the Current came the tolling of the ship’s bell, not its normal bright note, but the knell of lost things—the sound it made when it was struck with the clapper from the bell of the Desert Gold.
Reed and the crew in the boat were silent, the sun on their backs and the palms of the nearest desert island undulating with heat.
But they heard no answer from the depths.
Meeks sighed, leaning back against the side of the boat. “Nope, I got nothin’.”
Goro held up a hand to silence him.
“What?”
The old sailor nodded at Jules, whose head was still cocked toward the waves. Tattoos of birds and flowers wound along her arms, disappearing around the brown curves of her shoulders. One of their chanty leaders, Jules had a musical voice and a sensitive ear that made her likely to pick up the calling of the Desert Gold, if they were close enough. Tossing a wave of black hair out of her eyes, she scowled at Meeks. “You don’t have to announce it every time,” she said.
“But I didn’t hear anything!”
Goro grunted. “That’s ’cause you were yappin’.”
“So no one else could hear anything either,” Jules added.
“Ears are your thing.” Meeks shrugged, twisting one of the colored beads woven into his dreadlocks. “I’m here for my eyes.” Besides Aly, their steward, their second mate had the sharpest eyes, and could spy a signal flag or spot of trouble long before any of them even noticed a change on the horizon.
Leaning back, Jules kicked lightly at his boot. “That’s the good thing about eyes—ears too, come to mention it—you can use ’em without runnin’ your trap.”
With a flourish, he made a show of snapping his mouth closed.
Jules kicked at him once more, but she didn’t hide her smile. On their journey in from Jahara, Meeks had already warned them away from Oxscinian patrols, Everican scouts, and the black-and-yellow hunters of Serakeen’s pirate fleet.
Once, you could’ve sailed the whole Central Sea without worrying about anything more than a pillager or a privateer. Now, Oxscini and Everica were warring in the open ocean, while the Scourge of the East seized entire swaths of Liccarine sea. Kelanna was changing. And not for the better.