by Erin Hoffman
“All cannons take aim on her stern! Those who haven't armed, do so-we won't be so lucky again!” A tense but full-volumed shout answered Vidarian's command as crewmembers scurried across the deck.
The Starless loomed still closer, weakened but not deterred by the hit to her high mast. Spinning the wheel to starboard, Vidarian turned the Quest rapidly on the water, taking advantage of her deep keel to bring her side out of range of the enemy's punishing cannon.
But the fire that he expected never came. Instead, a volley of grapeshot filled the air with a sickening hiss, and pelted in a vicious, stinging rain against the Empress's forward sails, caught not yet furled for battle. Vidarian's stomach sank as their forward momentum fell away.
A comparatively slow ship made slower, the Quest now had no chance at flight; Vanderken and his crew would board, it was just a matter of time. Rather than stall the inevitable, Vidarian called Marielle to the wheel and left her to steer. The Rulorat sword sang its freedom from the sheath, and with his free hand Vidarian took up rope from a braided ladder and began to climb the main mast.
When he was halfway up, Vidarian could make out the stalwart form of the enemy captain astride the deck of the Starless Night. Vanderken raised his own sword in a salute, and though his grin could not be ascertained with the eyes, it was evident in his voice.
“Ahoy, Captain Rulorat! It's been some time!”
“Not long enough, Vanderken! And ‘twill not be until your thrice-damned ship ceases to poison these waters!”
“Now, my boy, what manner of greeting is that for an old chum?” Vanderken's voice grew in volume as the Starless continued its inexorable approach.
“Do you see that pennant, Vanderken?” Vidarian shouted, pointing his sword at the banner of Sharli that now flew from the crow's nest. “Would you be so quick to challenge a goddess?”
“Flags and faerie dust, lad!” His laugh carried flat and sharp across the water. “This be Nistra's bosom! Now you just wait right there!”
Moments later, a sickening crash joined the two vessels at the bow, punctuated by musket-fire as the crews exchanged volleys. Enhanced powder or not, it would not be a good fight; by the numbers pouring out of Vanderken's ship, he had, as was his custom, overloaded his berths, and appeared to have roughly a three-to-two ratio on the Empress's crew: hardened murderers, all. Swinging down from the mast, Vidarian ran to the starboard bow, leaping up to the thick rail. Mercilessly he kicked an enemy sailor into the brine as he caught his bearings, and waited for Vanderken to approach.
The captain of the Starless styled himself a “real” pirate; he did not hang back behind his crew, but foraged up with them. Men fell on both sides as muskets took their toll on the ranks, but out of custom none touched the region around the two captains.
Finally Vanderken leapt across the brief gap between the two ships’ starboard bows, landing hard on the deck of the Empress. Vidarian raised his blade and waited, a snarl of disgust on his lips.
Vanderken's sword was a lighter one, and he was quick as a viper with it. Still, Vidarian's defense held, and throughout their first clashing exchanges, neither man gained ground. Vidarian came in high, Vanderken slid the blade away along his own; back and forth they went.
“Tell me, Vanderken-how does one sleep, with infamy like yours?” Though fatigue now warmed his chest, Vidarian paced his breathing so as to seem effortless, baiting Vanderken into expending his own on a tirade.
“In a world so twisted as this, give me infamy over honor,” Vanderken said, breathing with each thrust, unfazed by Vidarian's ploy. “Give me infamy,” he growled again, and a pulse of dread shot through Vidarian's heart at the pure hate in his voice, “over pandering to the land-maggots. I sleep like a babe-”
When a bass explosion rocked the deck of the Empress, Vidarian staggered backward in shock-but Ulweis Vanderken only laughed. “What madness is this?” Vidarian demanded, but the other captain's eyes were on the site of the explosion.
Vidarian had not yet turned away from his opponent, and so saw the look in his eyes when triumph metamorphosed to horror.
It would later be recalled that the burning Eyes of Sharli descended overhead from a bank of clouds that boiled up out of the red sea. A demoness, her eyes rimed with hellfire, had stormed up out of the belly of the Empress and unleashed the fury of ten worlds upon the crew of the Starless Night-a fury of myth, of universes filled with fire. Brilliant blue flames shot from the pair of golden eyes that seared themselves into the memory of every crewman, igniting the pirate vessel's sails and burning them to ash in seconds. Then the sea around the craft began to boil, and it seemed that the very air caught fire. Men, all who had crewed the Starless but none from the Empress Quest, found that their clothing combusted and their skin burned. They leapt from the ship, attempting to douse the flames in the sea, but found no mercy there in the bubbling depths. Vidarian remembered only that his sword began to incandesce, pulsing like a living thing, as the enemy captain staggered back from him.
Vanderken ran back to his ship, jaw slack with disbelief, to stand aboard the crumbling bow as the turgid waves rolled up in a burning frenzy and washed him from the world.
In the aftermath, only a single crewman remained from the Starless-a midshipman, by the knots on his sleeve. He only had three real teeth, but made up for it in muscle mass, and had survived the firestorm only by having enough sense to douse himself in one of the Empress's fire-fighting barrels rather than pitching himself into the boiling sea. Still, he had taken many burns, and was unconscious.
When Vidarian went to find Ilsut, the ship's healer, he found him carefully but quickly finishing the ties on a sling that bound Marielle's entire right arm, splinted at forearm and upper, to her chest. Vidarian stopped short at the infirmary threshold, stricken. When Ilsut rose, there was no note of accusation in his dark eyes, only purpose, but his hurried nod as he gathered his tools and made for the front of the ship released a wall of guilt to crash through Vidarian's shock.
“Marielle,” he said quietly, then stopped, lost again. No use asking how bad the injury was; without doubt, it sealed the only issue of any importance: that she would not be eligible for promotion within the emperor's admiralty, not this year, at least. It was well known that Captain Theravar of the imperial coastrunner Ardent intended to retire within six months; Marielle had been favored by the College for the post, had fought long and hard for years. Most of the crew knew that she kept a tiny and expensive scale model of the Ardent in her quarters, bought last year when Theravar's coming retirement was announced. But the injury would disqualify her from the-however damnably ceremonial-ritual drills that tested imperial captains.
In her exhaustion-not, Vidarian would not allow himself to think, defeat-her usually precise diction faded into the snarled ship-speak of her humbler youth: “Belay that, Cap'n. The time it could've availed me's long past, so it's naught but empty words.”
He knelt, heedless of protocol. “If it is in my power to correct this, after we've returned, you know that I will.” He searched her posture for hope, for the spirit that had driven her these many years. For forgiveness.
She would not look at him, and he had known her too long to think it was out of fear. “You did your duty, Captain. I'll do mine. ‘Twas my choice setting foot on this ship, knowing what I did.”
He moved to try again, mustering a stern argument about acts of heroism and the Naval College, but at that moment Lifan appeared in the doorway. “Sir? The midshipman. He's regained consciousness.”
Vidarian looked from his first mate to the windreader. Lifan, hidden away from the fighting, nonetheless was now seeing its aftermath. Though she bore up bravely, she was shaken as any child would be. He stood, thanked her, ruffled her hair affectionately (and took some small relief in the relaxing of her taut shoulders after; the reassured smile-at least he could do that much), and headed for the quarterdeck.
The ship's carpenter had been supplied and dispatched to take care of what ma
st damage he could with tar and rope, and what crew not assigned to assisting him or other repair work had gathered around Ilsut and Vanderken's midshipman.
“Ye warned them, Cap'n, there be no shame in what they got.” This was one of many statements in response to Vidarian's grave demeanor. Little did they know that his concern could be measured less than nothing for Vanderken and his lice-ridden crew.
“Agreed,” Vidarian murmured, startling them by lifting his voice for the first time since the Starless had gone down. “They should have known the consequences.” His eyes rested, not on the poor wretch before them, but on the ladder down into the hold.
“But why would they risk their entire crew to board, Cap'n? It don't make no sense.”
“That,” Vidarian answered grimly, drawing his sword and resting its tip on the shoulder of the bleary survivor, “is precisely what I intend to find out.”
Vidarian had hardened himself to the notion of a grueling interrogation, but in the end it was very simple. When Ellara, unasked, had fetched Ariadel, they had no need of so much as rope for restraining. The midshipman began to weep and babble as soon as her cloaked figure appeared in the doorway.
Ellara gave Vidarian a nod, then turned to face the rapidly confessing prisoner. Vidarian offered the priestess his arm and they retreated from the quarterdeck, the sounds of a grown man's sobbing following them in echoes off the wooden walls.
If Ariadel's touch before was fire, her hand on his arm now was a brush of palest smoke. The faint scent of it even seemed to cling to her presence, though he wasn't sure if it was merely his imagination. Her feet barely seemed to touch the deck as she walked, and her skin was a uniform angry red in color. Darker rose marked her cheeks in a persistent flush.
In silence they walked the length of the deck, finally approaching the ladder that led up into the forecastle. When they reached the anteroom, Vidarian led the priestess to a high-backed chair, then moved to close both of the doors. When they were secure, he returned and set about pouring kava for both of them. Without being asked, he treated hers liberally with brown sugar and verali cream.
“Are you all right?” he asked quietly, handing her the cup.
She nodded. “I'll be fine.” Her voice was not quite a whisper.
Vidarian settled down into a chair opposite hers, fingers laced around his own silver cup. “Then perhaps you can tell me what in the name of all that's holy happened out there.”
“I called on Sharli-and she answered.”
“I'm afraid that's not good enough, Priestess. I know you are weary, but if my guess is correct, the Vkortha now know our exact position.” Memory recalled to him the sensation of burning steel filling his hand, and it hardened his words. “Why did you come abovedeck?”
The priestess's body language conveyed a blush, but with the current state of her skin it was impossible to tell. “Men were breaking into the lower hold,” she said, emotion coloring her hoarse voice. “They set off some kind of explosive. I-panicked a little, I'll admit. I called on Sharli. I did not expect her to answer-so forcefully. It was she who ascended the staircase.”
“And left your body like this?”
Ariadel nodded. “It will pass within a few days. I experienced this at my initiation rite, much more dramatically than this. Sharli is the Living Flame; we cannot host her in our mortal bodies without some aftereffect.”
Vidarian frowned, subdued. He finished his kava before answering, letting the warmth fill his stomach. “I have already directed our warrant officer to set a course for the nearest port. We will pick up medical supplies there. I have some here, of course, but none that would treat burns such as yours.”
The priestess straightened, wincing as her back thumped hard against the chair. “Captain, you said yourself, the Vkortha know our position. We cannot stop!”
Setting the empty cup on its tray, Vidarian shook his head. “I'm afraid we have no choice. There's only so much the ship's carpenter can do-one of their volleys cracked our aft mast, and we've sustained damage to the hull, not to mention the explosion site. Only the Empress's sound construction prevents her from taking on water even now. We must dock, if only for a little while.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I'm sorry, Priestess.”
Ariadel sank down into her chair, staring. “Do not be, Captain. Sharli's will or no, this is on my shoulders-and I have endangered your crew.”
Vidarian leaned forward earnestly. “Think not on it, Priestess. My crew does not fear the danger you bring-you've seen it yourself.”
She laughed bitterly. “And now they avoid me in the passages, Captain. It will not be the same after this.”
“They'll get past it,” Vidarian insisted, though his own heart caved with doubt. “We've seen more than you might think.” He smiled then, and would have reached to pat her hand out of reflex, but caught himself in time. Instead he stood and gave her a bow, reminding them both of his duty. “The crew of the Empress Quest remains at your disposal, priestess. We will see you safely to your destination, I promise you.”
They sailed through the night and approached Westhill Harbor just as dawn was pooling crimson on the eastern horizon. The crew worked with silent efficiency to bring the Empress into port, dropping anchor under Marielle's direction, though Ilsut had ordered her restricted to her quarters. Vidarian selected a dozen crewmembers to accompany him ashore, separated into two groups. One group he intended to return to the Empress after the supply run-the other he did not.
As they were making their preparations to disembark, Vidarian stood before the door to Marielle's cabin. He adjusted the boatswain's pipe-captain's gold-around his neck, running his thumb across the engraved Rulorat lettering on its throat. Then he knocked.
Marielle opened the door, and a jolt of surprise registered in her eyes, fast fading with her perfunctory nod and salute. “Captain,” she said only, and pulled the door further in wordless invitation. The reef charts for Westhill were spread across her cot, but this was the only defiance of neatness. She was, of course, already packed.
He stepped inside and shut the door, then spared a moment to see if she would permit awkward silence between them.
She did. In another officer, such silence might be nervous, searching-a hound seeking approval, fearing reprimand-but Marielle's clear grey stare was predator's patience. Vidarian had only seen a wolf once, a caged creature kept by a wealthy nobleman who had employed the Quest on occasion. Even confined, the animal had looked at him just like this.
“I intend to take half of the crew inland,” he began, and when she opened her mouth to remind him she'd already been briefed, he raised his hand in a request to continue. “We'll need lumber for the hull repairs, and I aim to be displeased with Westhill's lot.”
Marielle's eyebrows lifted. “Westhill has perfectly fine lumber, sir. The coastal hardwood.” The tiniest kernel of her old willfulness was there, but only just.
“It may be fine for Westhill, but not for my Empress,” he said, thumping the nearest bulkhead for emphasis. “I'll demand red teak, what she's built of.” She straightened to object again, and he spoke quickly to cut her off. “A week inland, I know, and more than that on return. But there I'll split the land crew again. Half will fetch the lumber and cross coastward to meet you here,” he moved to the Westhill chart and indicated a spot back up the coast from their current position. “In two days, I'll return with the other half, and we'll hire passage on the next ship to pass through.”
“You, and the priestess,” Marielle continued for him, quick on the uptake as usual, though her voice and humor remained low. Then she started. “The Quest will sail without you.”
Even though it was his own plan, her words made his stomach drop. “Yes,” he said. “It will. After I've seen the priestess to Zal'nehara, we'll meet you back at Val Harlon.”
Marielle went to the charts on her cot, stirred them, ostensibly reading routes but clearly searching her thoughts. “And doing this you aim to shake the pursuit
,” she said carefully, her eyes racing with branching speculation.
“That's one reason,” he said, and she made a rough noise, a growl in preparation for protest, but he cut her short with a shake of his head. “By turning over command of the Quest to you, by returning her to sea with you alone at the helm, you will have a field promotion according to the naval codes. And field captains…”
Marielle sucked in her breath, and paled, then flushed. Several things warred on her face-the tight stubbornness of her lips, the outrage in her flared nose-but more than anything, the wide, vulnerable hope in her eyes. The hope of a woman who had given up such frivolous things. He hated it, deeply: what their destinies had done to them. But he was not about to go down without a fight, and neither, ultimately, would she. “Field captains…are exempt from qualification drills,” she finished for him, with awe and disbelief at her own words.
“The war code,” he agreed. It had never been rescinded. Neither, however, had it been invoked in eighty years-since the last of the sea wars, ended when Vidarian's grandfather was a young man.
Marielle was silent for a long moment, her clouded eyes betraying thoughts turned inward. Thinking madly, Vidarian was sure, of a reason he could be wrong.
He laughed, startling her. “This must be the first time I've actually seen you speechless,” he said.
“I don't like it,” she said, finally.
“There you are,” he said. “Back to normal.”
“I'm serious, Vidarian,” she said. “Captain.” The hope had faded into worry, and he spared a wistful moment for it, memorizing what it had been like to see her so alight. “You've never been away from this ship so long. Your father was never.”