by Emma Hamm
Grumbling, she skirted her way past sailors on their hands and knees scrubbing the deck. They were eerily silent in their work. Their eyes followed her all the way back to the captain’s cabin where she shut and locked the door.
Now that the seasickness had subsided, she got a good look at his quarters. And what stunning quarters they were.
“A four-poster bed?” she muttered. “What need does a man have of a four-poster bed out to sea?”
It wasn’t very large, hardly enough room for two people, but it took up a remarkable amount of space. A wooden red desk was shoved in the corner. It didn’t look like anyone used it at all. There were no papers, no inkwells, nothing to suggest that Manus ever sat at the desk.
Sorcha peered underneath it.
“No chair?” she muttered. “Of course it would be for decoration only.”
Brown sheep skin covered the floor, soft against her bare feet. She curled her toes in its thick wool.
Someone pounded on the door. Whirling on her heel, she called out, “I’m not taking visitors!”
“Good!” Manus shouted back. “We’re going to be heading straight for the eye of that storm. It’s moving away from us so we’re going to put some effort in to catch it. Stay in the cabin! I don’t need you falling overboard.”
Her lips curled as she mimicked him. “I don’t need you falling overboard. It’s a good thing you’re helping me captain, or I’d have half a mind to trip you into the ocean!”
A chuckle echoed through the door, growing quieter and quieter until it disappeared.
Sorcha huffed and crossed her arms over her chest. She should feel tired, but the long night’s sleep was plenty. One might think that a sea captain would have an entertaining room, but there was little here.
Where was the treasure? The maps of wondrous places? At least trophies from all the places he had traveled! The man had a Fae-marked ship!
She gritted her teeth and rummaged through her pack. There was one thing that always settled her mind, no matter where she was.
Soft vellum covered the worn leather journal. Its parchment paper curled at the edges, darkened with age and brittle. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled.
It still smelled like her. No matter how many years her mother had been dead, her books still smelled like her. Aged paper, lavender oil, sunshine, and the faintest hint of clover.
As always, tears pricked her eyes.
“I miss you,” she whispered against the journal’s spine. “I left Papa yesterday, and I hope it was the right decision. You always told me to be brave and kind. I think that’s what this journey is for.”
She turned the page and lost herself into a naturalist’s recounting of healing. She read of teas which could stop bleeding, setting bones, cleaning wounds, walking a woman through every step of pregnancy. Sorcha’s mother had unimaginable knowledge that she wrote down every moment she could.
It would never be enough. She would always want to devour her mother’s words and wished she could remember her voice. Ten years was enough to forget many things about a person.
If Sorcha tried very hard, she could remember the way sunlight turned her mother’s rosy hair to fire. How Sorcha had spent hours counting the freckles on her mother’s arm when she had been ill. But she couldn’t remember the tone of her voice, the whispered stories, or what she sounded like when she told her daughter “I love you.”
Sorcha sniffed and blinked away tears.
Shaking her head, she patted the journal and placed it back inside her pack. “You’ll stay there,” she whispered. “Safe and sound.”
Slapping wings smacked against the porthole of the ship. Sorcha flung herself back against the bed and stared at the giant raven poking its head into her room.
“Excuse me?” she gasped. “Who are you?”
It cawed at her, cocking its head to the side and staring at her with a single yellow eye.
“No,” she said as she rose to her feet. “Absolutely not. I do not need a feathered friend in this room with me.”
The raven didn’t listen. It hopped from the porthole down onto the desk.
“No!” Sorcha said again.
She flapped her hands at it. There wasn’t anything to shoo it away with, and now it might be too late. Ravens were intelligent, but she wasn’t certain it could fly out the porthole. If she scared it into the air, then she might never get it back down. She eyed its wings.
“You’re mighty and quite large,” she said. “I think if you were flying that your wings would hurt me.”
It tilted its head to the other side and jumped one hop towards her.
“Ah,” she gasped. “Please don’t do that.”
The raven hopped backwards.
“No,” Sorcha shook her head. “Don’t do that either.”
The raven froze and met her gaze.
“Can you understand me?”
It squawked at her.
Overwhelmed again, Sorcha tried to back away from it. Her heel caught on the edge of a rug and she tumbled hard onto the floor. The bang of her tailbone hitting solid wood made her wince just as much as the sudden lightning bolt of pain.
The raven lifted its wings as though it might fly into the air.
“No!” Sorcha lifted one hand, the other rubbing firmly at her bottom. “I’m fine. Please don’t do that!”
It seemed to hesitate, wings still poised for flight.
“Really, I’m fine. I just didn’t expect you to understand me. Are you the captain’s?”
The raven’s reaction was immediate. Its wings snapped down at its sides, its head rose from its feathers to an impossible height, and it croaked angrily at her.
“Did I insult you?” she asked. “I apologize. This is the captain’s quarters, it’s not that big of a stretch.”
Although, talking to a bird and expecting to be understood was a stretch. They were unnaturally intelligent, so it wasn’t all that surprising that it reacted to her words.
She narrowed her eyes. “Am I making this up in my head because yesterday I was safe in my family’s brothel and now I’m hurtling towards the Otherworld? Or can you really understand me?”
It flapped its wings.
Sorcha rolled onto her knees and achingly rose to her feet. “I’m losing my mind. First, I make a deal with a faerie. Then I think ravens can understand me. What’s next? Guardians are actually real?”
She snorted at the thought. The captain was trying to frighten her into staying in her cabin and away from his men. She understood that he might want her to stay out of the way, but he could have done it in a much more understanding way.
The raven croaked again and hopped towards the porthole. It pecked at the wood, the harsh thumps repetitive and strangely intentional. Between each jab, it would turn its head to stare at her.
Was it trying to get her to go to the window? She took a few hesitant steps forward. If the bird could understand her, did it want her to look outside?
“I’m losing my mind,” she said.
Sorcha inched by the raven, keeping an eye on its movements so it didn’t lunge at her. The bird stayed very still. She hooked her elbows on the edge of the porthole and leaned out.
The ocean waves didn’t quite reach the window, but the salt spray misted her cheeks. The sun had set while she’d read. The moon spread its rays across the waves, turning them silver and frothy white.
It was beautiful. Untamed and wild, the ocean was the last bit of the world which remained a mystery. A wave crested against the ship and the splashing water sounded like music.
“It’s hard to believe such a place is so dangerous,” she whispered.
She reached a hand towards the next wave. Sea water splashed, bitterly cold and bracing. Bubbles caught between her fingers and popped as she lifted them towards her mouth. She licked the salt from her skin with a soft chuckle.
“See?” she glanced over her shoulder towards the raven. “It’s not all that dangerous.”
A soft th
ump against the side of the ship startled her. She looked down into the black waters but could see nothing in their depth.
Sorcha narrowed her eyes and leaned further out the porthole.
Something in the darkness shifted. She couldn’t see what was there, or where the movement came from, but the murk changed.
She scooted even farther out the porthole, her hands braced against the side of the ship.
In the darkness of the ocean, within arm’s reach, an eye blinked — larger than a dinner plate and black as night. She could see it now. The entire impossible length of the guardian stretched out larger than the ship.
Sorcha’s mouth gaped open and her fingers turned to claws. The guardian’s head alone was larger than a horse! It was faintly human in shape, but its skin was ghostly pale and speckled. Its mouth was a large gash that spread across its face nearly to the ear canals on the side of its head. Hair grew in a mohawk from the peak of its skull and stretched so far into the waves that Sorcha couldn’t begin to guess its length.
It blinked its eye again. Lips stretched into what she hoped was a friendly smile, and Sorcha heard the thump again. The creature’s long spindly finger was stroking the side of the ship. It paused at the top of the yellow paint and then traveled underneath the boat.
A soft whine escaped Sorcha’s lips.
“Okay,” she whispered. “I’m going back inside now. Please don’t flip us.”
She didn’t want to startle the guardian, so she moved inch by inch until she fell onto the floor of the cabin. Only then did she allow herself to hyperventilate and wave her hands in her air. When did she lose feeling in her hands? Her heart beat so fast she thought it was rising into her throat.
“It’s real,” she whispered over and over again. “It’s really real. That exists in the oceans. I’m never going swimming again.”
The raven bobbed its head and made a sound like laughter.
“You stop it. You didn’t see that thing.”
The raven didn’t stop laughing, even when Sorcha threw a pillow at its head.
With all the new sights, and the rocking of the ship, Sorcha was certain she wouldn’t sleep again. Nightmares would keep her awake. The possibility of the future would keep her awake. There was no possible way that she could slip into the endless night. But she did, and her mind did not plague her with dreams.
Chapter Four
THE PHANTOM ISLE
The ghosts of his past walked with Eamonn across the ramparts of the castle. They tugged on the cloak wrapped around his shoulders, tangled in the high peak of his braid, clutched at his wrists, and pulled him back towards the gloom.
He shook his head, trying to toss aside memories like water shaking from his skin. He was not so lucky. His mind held him captive and replayed old memories from his childhood.
His father stared with eyes cold and unfeeling. The blade in his hand glinted in the glaring sunlight that traveled up the sharp edge to the point. It swung down, slicing across his face and spraying blood across the battlements.
His mother turned away from the sight. His brother’s smirk scalded into his memory and branded his mind.
Memories were his prison. Torment his penance for years of foolish attachments and familial trust.
Storm clouds rolled overhead. Slate gray and heavy with moisture, they threatened lightning and thunder that would last for days. The weather grew angry with him and together they would rage against each heartbeat—each breath—that kept him alive.
He dug his fingers into the cracked stone of the barely waist-high wall that was the only barrier between him and a hundred-foot fall. In his youth, he would have feared cutting his skin. Now, he listened to the scrape of crystals cutting into granite that crumbled under his clenched fist.
A low rumble of thunder rocked the isle of Hy-brasil. Far below the castle walls, tiny dots of sheep and faeries scattered towards the safety of caves. They would wait out the sky’s anger there. Perhaps they would build a fire, drink mead and whiskey and tell stories from their youth.
All while their master stood upon the highest tower and roared at the sky.
Eamonn heard a voice just like his own on the wind. Deep like the thunder, but even more dangerous—his twin brother’s voice.
“This was your doing,” Fionn said. “You are responsible for all their suffering and the suffering of hundreds more. You made me do this, Eamonn, and now we all pay the price.”
He shook his head. “I did not choose this life. I did not force your hand.”
The wound upon his throat throbbed, and the geodes in his neck cast violet light upon his fists. He still felt the biting rope, fraying at the edges, and swaying in the breeze.
He released the catch of his cloak and let it fall to the stones. It fluttered in the wind, stretching out as though it were cloth wings.
Leather leggings hugged his thighs. The sewn strips dipped into craters of geodes and grew taut over peaks of pointed crystal. No shirt covered his bare chest, allowing the wind to whistle through the valleys of disfigurement. Abdominal ridges rose above the line of his pants, the bumps of his ribs bisected by gashes of violet wounds. His left shoulder was almost entirely gemstone, the large chunk limiting his movement. Spindly veins of opal traveled across his chest, down one thick bicep, and stretched to follow the line of his spine.
The deepest wound wrapped around his neck. The perfect circle was two fingers wide and created a hollow valley of jagged crystals. It deepened his voice to a gruff rasp.
Like his shoulder, veins of opal sliced across his face. Two twin lines started above his eyebrow and at the peak of his temple. They cut across his eye, skipped only at the opening of his mouth, and met at his throat. The crystal at his lips limited his speech and caused him to speak from one side of his mouth, giving him a permanent sneer.
He shaved his head on both sides, leaving only the top to grow freely. He wore it in a braid, letting it swing to the middle of his back. The golden hair was the last bit of beauty he had left.
Eamonn had once been the most desired Seelie man any woman had ever seen. The strength of his body, the legends of his battle prowess, and the startling blue of his eyes had wooed many to his bed.
The memories of beautiful women turning away when they saw his true form and the nightmare he had become plagued him.
He walked to the end of the rampart and let his toes hang over the edge. His eyes drifted shut as the wind brushed his cheeks. It whistled through the crystals and sang a song only he could hear.
He may not be dead yet, but the time was nearing. Soon, soon he could let go.
“Master,” Cian’s voice cut through the raging storm within Eamonn’s head. “If you planned on jumping, you’d have done it a long time ago.”
“Leave.”
The gnome never listened. Eamonn could hear his footsteps as he padded down the ramparts.
Cian cleared his throat. “Now it seems to me you’re frightening the pixies in the gardens. They’re staring up like your body is going to come crashing down on them any minute, and I need them collecting the pumpkins before the storm starts.”
“Make them gather in the rain.”
“Their wings will get wet, and we both know how difficult they are when they have wet wings. So why don’t you take a few steps back and stop their trembling.” Cian paused, and then added, “Or jump off and save us all the trouble of worrying.”
The gnome had such a way with words. Eamonn shook his head and held out a hand. He kept his back turned towards Cian, knowing most of the damage to his body was reflected on his chest and face.
“My cloak,” he grunted.
“I’ve seen you before, boy. There’s no need to hide.”
“My cloak, Cian.”
He knew they all had seen him. Eamonn had accidentally strayed too far from his tower many times. The pixies had caught him washing in the waterfalls. The brownies found him in the training grounds. They were all stuck on the same isle; there weren’t a lo
t of places for him to hide.
None of this meant he felt comfortable around them. His disfigurement was a disgrace to the royal line. The truth was branded into his mind after they hung him for seven days. Old wounds like that cut to the quick and rarely healed.
Cool fabric met his outstretched hand. Eamonn’s eyes drifted shut for a moment, thankful that the gnome had followed orders. He would never say it. There was no purpose in congratulating someone for doing what they were told.
He swirled the cloak in a wide arc and settled it over his shoulders. Heat enveloped him with unwelcome arms. Eamonn hated the cloak. He hated hiding, but this had become his existence. He was no longer the handsome man he once had been.
“Storm’s coming,” Cian said as he walked up to Eamonn’s side. “And you’re still standing at the top of your castle leaning over an edge that could crumble at any moment.”
“Would it be such a loss?”
“No. We’d get along just fine without you, but I’d have to dig a new hole in the garden and I hadn’t planned on doing that until next spring.”
“Ever so gentle, Cian.”
“I don’t have to be gentle with you. The warlord prince of the Seelie Fae should have thicker skin.”
Eamonn twitched the edge of his cloak over his newly mangled hand. “That was a long time ago.”
“Take one step back, and I’ll tell you who I was before I came here.”
“I know who you were,” his toes curled over the edge. “Gnomes have always been good thieves. You stole from the wrong person and pay your penance here. Hy-brasil was and always will be a prison. Nothing more.”
Cian planted a hand firmly against the base of Eamonn’s spine. The sudden touch made him lock his muscles holding himself in place without twitching or revealing the sudden shock that raced through his veins. The gnome did not push, nor did he pull. He kept his hand against Eamonn’s back relaxed but threatening.
“I was no common thief. I stole to make a living and feed my family. Your people view gnomes as little more than slaves. We work in your gardens, feed your people while the rest of us go hungry. My children went to bed with their stomachs aching, and my wife withered away into nothing. I stole a single piece of bread from the kitchens of a lowly Seelie lord. For that, they banished me here — never to see my family again.”