“Hold tight!” called Kallan, wrestling with the wheel at the helm of the ship.
Kilai gritted her teeth, tugging hard at the rope as it slid through her palms, stinging fire amidst the lashing rain. It felt like thousands of needles against her face, her skin tingling and numb. A grunt escaped her as she pulled the rope tighter, barely able to see over the haze of the storm all around her, senses overwhelmed by the crash of the waves rocking the ship so hard that she struggled to keep her footing. It was terrifying, the sea rising up to meet her like the horizon was unravelling. It was thrilling, to only be in this one moment, past and future non-existent when there was only thoughts of survival.
Then suddenly the pull became easier and she realised that Makku had come to help her, guiding her to snap the storm jib into position. She clutched onto it to keep her steady, breathing hard, and gave him a nod in thanks. Soaked through, freezing cold and shivering, she could do little more than hold on through the worst of the storm, anchored by the calm frenzy of a crew accustomed to the storms that always plagued the Myrliks in the turn of the low season.
A small part of her welcomed it, turning her face to the sky as the rain pelted her; a warning. The rocking churned her stomach and her body ached from both the cold and wrestling with the ship, but she couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so free. For Kilai had fought the storm before and watched it fall before her. Her friends might not be there with her now but she was still defiant on her own. Still strong enough to hold her ground, even if it was merely to the will of nature.
It felt like days that they huddled down against the biting wind and grabbing hands of the ocean, barely holding back from being swallowed down into the swirling black waters of its gaping maw. It felt like seconds. But just as quickly as the storm had sprung upon them it petered out. The last echoes of the waves rocked the ship in a mere imitation of the wild seesaw of the storm. The wind faded down into a natural sea breeze, crisp and refreshing after the muggy heat before the break of thunder. Kilai felt the crew draw a collective breath, relieved to have survived the tempest.
“Land ahead!” called Kess from the crow’s nest, waving her spyglass.
The sky ahead was still too murky for Kilai to discern anything yet but she still slumped against the mast in relief at the call, longing for the stability of land beneath her feet, if only for a day. Apparently the choice to follow the call to adventure wasn’t going to make her any more rested than traipsing through the Myrliks in search of Riftkeepers was. But by now heavy lids and weary bones were becoming a comforting companion; a triumphant flag to signify she was still going. Still alive.
Gradually the clouds gave way to a blue sky and with the clarity came the jagged outline of the mountains of the Yllaizlo, green capped with white against a perfect azure. They had already made several stops to various towns along the western coast of the island, offloading one set of crates, only to load up on another set at the next destination they reached. A stirring curiosity was growing inside her each time she watched the exchanges between Kallan and whoever she did business with, wondering just what it was they were carrying around with them. She wanted to ask but something was holding her tongue. Beyond the odd held gaze she couldn’t really say anything seemed out of the ordinary, but the lack of conversation about their journey was starting to chip away at her, feeling like perhaps she wasn’t hearing the conversation by design.
They did not trust her yet, that much was evident. But that was only to be expected. This did not concern Kilai, for she knew bonds needed time to take effect, and for now she would simply have to be the outside observer, watching them busy themselves as the ship drifted closer and closer to land. What did concern her was the need for secrecy. If they felt there were things she could not know, that meant they had secrets they wished to keep hidden, and that could mean any number of things, all of which could only foretell trouble. It made her anxious, grip tightening on the railing as she watched the land fold in around them, the small waterside town growing larger before her.
The houses were built upon a network of wooden structures that kept them above water level, small round huts with cone shaped roofs taking shape upon their approach. All along the piers rowing boats were moored, presumably the way that citizens of this town tended to travel around. Water stains were the only taint on the painted homes of different colours, yellows, greens and pinks reflecting off the water to make a picturesque scene of a quaint town cropping up between the rugged, rolling green hills rising up behind it. There were so many of these pretty spots all over the island, places she had never seen because she had never had any cause to visit, that she was so suddenly grateful to bear witness to now. There was a whole world out there she wanted to see.
“Drop the anchor!” shouted Kallan.
Kilai felt the lurch as it dropped to the sand below, watching some of the crew lower the gangplank to the main line of the pier that stretched out into a shimmering green sea. The water was so clear she could see the faint outline of rocks below and the flickering shapes of what she assumed were fish until they started to glow a faint pinkish-red, and she realised they were in fact riftspawn. She smiled, thinking of Rook, wondering how she was getting on with her journey home. A part of her envied that she still had a home to go to, even if she knew Rook dreaded it.
“Ki-wei! Come help us move these crates,” yelled Makku, waving her over.
Taking the other side, she gasped when it was much heavier than she expected it to be, nearly dropping it on her foot. “What in the Locker is in this thing? Are you shipping balloon whales across the island?”
Jorkell strode past her with two crates piled atop her outstretched arms and Kilai winced out of reflex. Sure, she wasn’t going to be as strong as a woman a head and a half taller and nearly twice the bulk, but that didn’t mean there had to be such a disparity. Wheezing, her curiosity flared up again as she heard something rattle inside the crate, but she had to focus on her footing as she trod backwards down the gangway to the safety of land once more. Dropping the crate to catch her breath, she massaged her aching muscles and glared at Makku laughing her.
“Why don’t you carry it yourself, then?”
He raised his palms up but his amber brown eyes were still full of mirth. “Come on now, don’t make a fellow do all the work.”
As more crates were dropped around them by the crew, Kilai was startled when seemingly from nowhere a group of strangers appeared and began to lift the crates, carrying them down the pier. Looking around, she spotted Kallan talking to an older man further down, the two of them leaning in close, locked in what appeared to be an intense conversation. Perhaps she was imagining it but Kilai trusted her senses. Something was going on and she wanted to know what if she was supposed to be a part of it.
“I think they’re old friends,” said Makku.
“Huh?” she asked, tearing her eyes away to meet his gaze.
“Kallan and that man. We’ve been here a few times to make drops. I don’t really know what the deal is but they seem to know each other well.”
“So what are we delivering?”
There was a beat of silence. “Supplies, I guess. It’s hard to get certain things out here.”
A vague answer if ever she heard one but she had the sense not to push. She simply stood and watched as the crates were carried past Kallan and her companion, the two of them almost oblivious to what was going on around them. Kilai was just about to turn away and help the crew when Kallan’s eye slid to hers and held her gaze for a solid moment before turning back to the man. Caught, she hurried to look busy, helping Makku lug a slightly lighter shipment down the pier to where the villagers were storing them, inside a small building upon stilts, surrounded by swampy green water and mangroves. A wooden walkway broke away from the main pier and wound out towards it, its thatched roof horned at the top, and a lantern dangling from each corner with small flames dancing inside the blue and red glass.
Where the vegetation grew t
hicker it obscured the bright light of the afternoon, sunshine dappling the rooftop as branches swayed above, and it smelled damp and mossy, full of life in only the way that living so entangled with nature could be. Inside, the building – little more than a hut, truly – was piled high with the ship’s crates, the fabric covering the door swaying on the sea breeze. Distantly she could hear the deep bass of a toad’s croak and the warble of birds in the trees.
Makku caught her expression as she dropped her crate atop the stack and swiped at the sweat on her forehead, a laugh rumbling up from his chest. “Bit primitive for you is it, princess?”
She scowled. “You say that like I am not doing the exact same job as you.”
Jorkell stomped past them with a crate in each hand, grunting softly as she put them down and wiped her hands. Kilai glanced up at her and underestimated just how tall the woman was. Far bulkier too, able to carry so much weight without even breaking a sweat across her golden tanned skin. Jorkell nodded when they met gazes and then plodded off back to the ship to help the villagers buzzing around them, their chatter rising above the orchestra of the mangrove forest, speaking in a dialect from which she struggled to pick out more than the odd word.
“I don’t think I’ve ever asked where Jorkell hails from.”
Makku frowned, rubbing at a blister on his finger. “A small village named Baikath, not too far from here. Not much reason to go, really.”
“Ah. It’s interesting, travelling with a crew from all over.”
“You never asked where I was from.”
“That’s because you tell anyone and everyone any chance you get that you come from the Yllainyk. Grödak, I mean.”
Makku pouted. “You are no fun at all.”
She rolled her eyes, thinking back to her adventures of the past year, all the fighting and running and struggling to keep them all afloat. Kilai had never really had the room for fun since she was a little girl; her father’s only heir put to lessons from youth on business and economy, languages and diplomacy. But perhaps this endeavour was a reaction to exactly that – a need to break free from the confines of a scripted identity and design her own. So she shoved at him when he wasn’t looking, hard and unexpected enough that he teetered on the edge of the pier with a yelp before tumbling in.
His head darted up from the murky water with a lily pad over his curly hair like a lady’s bonnet and she couldn’t stop the giggles that erupted from her mouth, a hand instinctively reaching up to muffle the sound only to be struck with a realisation. She dropped her hand, throwing her head back and clutching at her stomach with laughter as Makku emerged like a swamp creature from old fishwives’ tales, dripping all kinds of flora from his sodden clothes. His hands stretched out in front of him and she squealed, running off in the other direction to avoid his muddy grasp of revenge.
Boots thudding on the wooden slats below, she tore down the winding shape of the piers with Makku shouting her name behind her. Her own laughter chased her, heart racing as she raised her face to the spots of sunshine flashing in her eyes, trees silhouetted black against the blue of the sky. She had no idea where she was going but she didn’t care. For once in her life she felt free, like she could walk off the edge of the platform and it wouldn’t matter. Like there were no chains weighing her down. No weight of expectation. No heavy stare of reproval for such frivolous actions.
For once in her life she could truly be Kilai Shaikuro. Could find out who that really was.
“Where have you gone off to?”
Makku’s voice echoed more distantly than she realised and she paused, looking around. The forest had cocooned her in its spindly arms, huge fronds of ferns curling down towards the path that was slick with lichen and overgrown with thick, gnarled tree roots bulging from the emerald coloured water. Lanterns dangled from a rope of thick twine woven through the trees, throwing pools of coloured light upon small signs etched with symbols mostly familiar, but arranged in an unfamiliar way. Small wooden boardwalks led away towards homes, lights spilling out from windows, reflecting on the surface of the water around them. Vines hung from branches, winding and twisting around one another in draperies around a huge stone in the middle. The walkway circled around it, at the centre of this vast network that the people of the village had built their lives upon.
Carved into the stone was a face, faded by time and rain, infested by moss and mildew, but still recognisable in the gouging for eyes and the long tusks dangling from a mouthful of stone teeth. Arms rested at its fat sides, holding a staff in one fist with a gemstone set into the top that appeared to be some kind of raw opal, shining in the patch of warm sunlight where the trees had thinned. It had a funny kind of grin on its face, thick brows furrowed, and snaking horns twisted up from atop its head, one chipped and broken. Kilai stared at the stone beast, struck by the character in such simple carvings. Reaching out, she ran the pads of her fingers across the rough stone in wonder, tracing over every worn line and edge.
A flash of purple light caught the corner of her eye and she gasped, reeling back. A riftspawn with big dark eyes, long ears and tiny fluttering wings hovered above the stone, peering down at her. Frozen, she met its gaze levelly, almost afraid to breathe in case she disturbed it from its position above. She never really knew with these creatures, whether she should be wary of them or not. The things she had witnessed in her travels with Rook, Janus and Viktor suggested she should be afraid, but the creature did not look particularly threatening. Then again, looks could be deceiving.
“What are you – oh,” said Makku, the last word exhaled more than spoken. “Would you look at that? That spirit seems to like you.”
She didn’t dare turn to look at him. “Do you think so? It’s not moving. At all.” Its wings blurred, seemingly holding it aloft, but there was no noise coming from it. Besides, it didn’t seem these creatures needed wings to stay aloft.
“Mm. I’ve seen ones like these before. We call them Forest Hoppers, on account of the big ears. They’re not dangerous.” Makku stepped forward and held out a hand. The riftspawn darted away, swooping around in a circle to face them once more only higher above their heads. “They’re pretty timid.”
“You aren’t afraid?”
He shrugged. “After a while you get a sense for what wants to hurt you and what doesn’t. It’s like anything, really.”
“Have you seen many?”
Makku glanced back at the riftspawn hovering above them. “Oh, yeah. Reams of ‘em where I used to live, always popping up and possessing the vegetables. My mother used to warn me off chasing them when I was a child but honestly I’ve never had any trouble from them.” He turned to head back to the ship, head craning to grin at her. “You’re not afraid of them, are you?”
Kilai snorted but it was a hollow sound. She couldn’t possibly hope to explain to him the depths of her experiences with them. “Perhaps you should be afraid.”
“Oh? Know something I don’t?”
Possessions. Rotting corpses. Creatures in the sky. In the sea. Bending reality. Visions. Losing control. How did one even go about explaining all she had seen without sounding like she was due to be carted off to the witless house.
With a sigh and a last look at the riftspawn hovering above the sun strewn rock, she made to follow him back to the ship. “Let’s just say I’ve seen a thing or two in my time.”
“You don’t look that old, Chana.”
Kilai swatted him over the head. “We’re not on those terms yet, you brat.”
Makku raised his palms and grinned. “I take it back. You’re an old hag.”
Footsteps sounded ahead, the boards rattling beneath their feet as someone ran towards them. Kilai shared a worried look with Makku who whipped out a cutlass and motioned for her to get behind him. Weaponless, she took a step back, prepared for the worst, only for Torha, one of the Zephyr’s crew Kilai had not spoken with much so far, to appear before them. She leant forward on her thighs, breathing hard.
“Captain sa
ys there’s a ship on the horizon. We need to move.”
Makku swore under his breath. “Come on. Don’t think she won’t leave us behind.”
Kilai hurried after them, back towards the ship. She wanted to ask what they were so afraid of but she had a feeling she already knew. No doubt it was a Sonlin ship that had been spotted in the spyglass, the only thing that could have a band of shipping merchants so rattled. She wasn’t stupid; she had suspected some smuggling was involved and hadn’t really cared about the prospect, for where there was demand there would always be someone enterprising enough to supply. Even the Sonlin had to be aware that such dealings went on but on such a small scale it would hardly be fruitful to chase down. And yet to have them scramble back to the ship like their lives depended on it could only mean they were doing something far more illicit. That they were carrying something far more dangerous.
Curiosity at a peak, she helped the harried crew pack up to leave, meeting Kallan’s gaze for one meaningful moment. She would find out what was going on, that much she was sure of. What remained was what she thought of the answer.
*
“Did you speak with Lord Sandson today?”
Vallnor leant back on the sofa with one arm slung across the back and his feet on the cushions. He shrugged. “I don’t see why I have to posture in front of that imposter. He’s just a man with a paper crown.”
Fyera rolled her eyes and shoved his feet off the sofa so that she could sit beside him. Today she was draped in another fine kobi with delicate embroidery, a jewelled headdress woven into the dark curls of her hair. “It does not become you to be so ignorant, brother. Sandson made his name with his own wit. Do not be fooled as so many are.”
Vallnor huffed. He didn’t care about all of this fluttering around others, as if anyone but themselves could earn back their own crown. Fyera could drape herself up in whatever jewels and finery they still possessed, relics of times past and pitiful donations from those who wished to curry favour. She had always been this way, clinging to what had already withered and died. Times changed, that was always a certainty. Even they, their faces and bodies and spirits, were always renewed with each new turn of the phoenix cycle. In the end they would prove victorious, as they were always meant to do. A crown meant nothing if it had been handed over by simpering sycophants.
The Rising Tide Page 3