Blackveil (99 page)
Amberhill nodded. He’d pored over charts with Yap. Now that it was coming to it, he felt a little apprehensive, a little queasy, like his seasickness was coming back, but thankfully it was fleeting.
“Ready, Mister Yap?” the mate called.
“Ready!” Yap clambered back over the rail from the gig to the ship, and it was lowered to the waves below. It looked small down there, tossing like a piece of driftwood.
“Luck,” Captain Malvern said as Amberhill followed Yap over the side of
Ice Lady
onto the rope ladder.
Ice Lady
onto the rope ladder.
“And to you,” he replied before scrambling down along the barnacle-studded hull. When he reached the bottom of the ladder, he stepped carefully into the gig. It bucked like a wild horse and only Amberhill’s excellent balance prevented him from falling into the water.
Yap cast off the lines holding the gig to
Ice Lady
and scrambled from the bow to hoist the mainsail, and then lunged for the stern to take command of the tiller. The gig heeled away in the gusting winds. Amberhill was impressed by how quickly the distance grew between them and
Ice Lady,
and he felt at once free and anxious. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Ice Lady
and scrambled from the bow to hoist the mainsail, and then lunged for the stern to take command of the tiller. The gig heeled away in the gusting winds. Amberhill was impressed by how quickly the distance grew between them and
Ice Lady,
and he felt at once free and anxious. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
The storm rushed upon them as they made for the islands, slamming them with rain, waves washing over the rail. The gig strained, groaned, complained at the forces that battered it. Lightning slashed through the sky accompanied by deafening thunder. Yap fought with the tiller and Amberhill clung to the mast and sent up a prayer to the gods. The
Ice Lady
was completely gone from sight, vanished behind walls of waves and curtains of rain.
Ice Lady
was completely gone from sight, vanished behind walls of waves and curtains of rain.
Both fresh and salt water assaulted them, burning Amberhill’s eyes. All he saw was water above, water below, turbulent darks and darker, visibility cut off by downpour and foamy crest. Yap was yelling, but the roar of wind slapped the words back at him. He pointed.
Amberhill peered over the plunging bow. Was there something ahead? When the bow reared back up and the gig climbed another wave, he saw only the gush of rain. The bow surged over the crest and this time, as they slid into the trough, he made out a pair of shapes darker than waves or rain or clouds, green and white froth dashing against them. They looked like monsters of the sea.
The Dragon Rocks!
The bow reared again. Monsters indeed—the currents around them would crush the gig. He glanced at Yap. The expression on the pirate’s face was one of terror.
“Steer clear!” Amberhill shouted. “Those are the Dragons ahead!”
Yap jiggled the tiller. It moved too easily. Amberhill did not hear the word, but read Yap’s lips: “Broken.”
Like the stick of driftwood Amberhill had imagined earlier, the gig was tossed around by the ocean, and when they neared the chaotic, churning currents near the pair of sea stacks called the Dragon Rocks, an enormous wave curled over them and Amberhill found himself wishing he’d taken an unexpected interest in seal hunting.
S
he walked among the wrack and blue mussel shells and the foam at the ocean’s edge. Bare of foot, she stepped surely, as though her toes knew every contour of every stone of the beach, every cobble and pebble. A hermit crab scuttled out of her way.
he walked among the wrack and blue mussel shells and the foam at the ocean’s edge. Bare of foot, she stepped surely, as though her toes knew every contour of every stone of the beach, every cobble and pebble. A hermit crab scuttled out of her way.
She liked to stroll the shore after storms, for the ocean tossed up so many interesting things. Sometimes they were secrets long hidden in darkling depths; often they were the flotsam and jetsam of far passing ships. Today, as gulls argued over a crab and an osprey tested its wings in air currents still restless from the storm, she found a bottle shining in the foam. She picked it up and discovered the cork still sealed, the wine safe within. That was a rare gift. Continuing on she found tangled fishing gear, some battered boards.
Soon she came upon more debris: wood planking, a barrel bobbing in the shallows. Perhaps she would be gifted with an entire cask of wine. She smiled.
A sheet of white undulating in the waves caught her eye, a sail, and it was snagged. It was snagged around a man. The gods were being very generous to her this day—if he still lived. She lengthened her strides to reach him. He lay half out of the water, his head resting on his outstretched arm, kelp trailing from his wrist. The sun sheened on wet black hair that straggled across a well-formed face. Much more handsome than the sailors she usually received.
He still breathed. A wave stirred his hand in an eddy. The red of a ruby on his finger flared in her eyes. She dropped to her knees and grabbed his hand to see the ring close up. She knew it, had known the ring before and the hand that had worn it, the hand that had caressed her so tenderly, so lovingly, so long ago. She stroked the man’s hair away from his face.
“Are you he?” Yolandhe, sea witch out of legend, asked. “Have you come back to me, my love?”
RETREAT
AND RESOLVE
AND RESOLVE
S
omething had gone terribly wrong. Grandmother had felt it like the snap of a bone in the small hours as they passed the night in the grove. She’d heard a horrible wailing in her sleep like some enormous beast receiving grievous injury, and upon awakening, she found the limbs of trees quivering above, and that the forest had grown uneasy. God said he’d ensure their safe passage home, but as they hurriedly packed and sought their way out of the grove, the forest was as hostile as ever, unseen eyes glaring at them, unnamed creatures lusting for their blood, and now they didn’t even have their groundmite companions to protect them anymore.
omething had gone terribly wrong. Grandmother had felt it like the snap of a bone in the small hours as they passed the night in the grove. She’d heard a horrible wailing in her sleep like some enormous beast receiving grievous injury, and upon awakening, she found the limbs of trees quivering above, and that the forest had grown uneasy. God said he’d ensure their safe passage home, but as they hurriedly packed and sought their way out of the grove, the forest was as hostile as ever, unseen eyes glaring at them, unnamed creatures lusting for their blood, and now they didn’t even have their groundmite companions to protect them anymore.
Grandmother had had to create a salamander compass to help them navigate the curling roads of Argenthyne until once again they found the main road around the lake. Even the lake was disturbed, its surface curdled and waves slapping the shore. When she glanced back toward the castle towers, they had grown darker as if decayed, dying, and then wet clouds swallowed them. Acrid raindrops began to pelt her face.
With two of her men gone—three if she counted Regin, who had been lost so early on in their journey—setting up camp for the night proved despairingly difficult in the rain, as if they’d never done it before. With a little help from Grandmother’s art, Cole did manage to get a fire burning.
Though Lala now had a voice, she said little. Occasionally she broke out in small snatches of song.
“Mum,” the girl said, cuddling up to Grandmother before the fire.
Grandmother’s cares and aches and chills melted away to hear Lala call her that, and she wrapped her arm around her little girl.
“I will teach you some songs one of these days,” Grandmother said.
“I think I know some,” Lala replied. “They came with my voice.” And she sang the chorus of a ridiculous drinking song.
“No, no,” Grandmother said as gently as she could. “I need to teach you some songs of Arcosia that have been passed down, and others that will help you with the art.”
“Oh.”
Grandmother was too tired for teaching this night so they sat in silence for a time as rain hissed and steamed in their campfire. It looked like their journey home was going to be no easier than their journey in, especially since it appeared God had rescinded his promise of protection. Grandmother sighed, not looking forward to the perilous walk. She brightened when she thought to look in on Birch. She had wanted to see how his campaign fared, and maybe God would come to her and she could plead for His protection.
So she knotted some of her precious dwindling yarn, and with a nail clipping of Birch’s wound within, she tossed it onto the fire.
And saw dusk. The evenings there were less dark, and it was not raining. She heard the clash of steel, and she gazed through Birch’s eyes. The dead surrounded him where they’d fallen in the woods. They appeared to be—No! Not their own!
“Retreat!” Birch bellowed, waving his sword.
A glance over his shoulder revealed men coming after him with pikes and swords, whose mail glinted beneath home-spun clothes. Snatches of black and silver uniforms showed from beneath plain coats and cloaks.
From Birch’s mind she gleaned he’d allowed his men to walk into a trap. He’d gotten overconfident and his band of warriors had been overwhelmed—there had been more than the thirty of the enemy his scout had reported. They were slaughtered by the Sacoridians.
“Retreat!” he cried again to those of his men who survived.
Grandmother withdrew from the connection and placed her face in her hands. She had to get home now. She could not permit Second Empire to fail.
THEIR SEPARATE WAYS
T
he wind hissed across the tips of dead grasses, but the scent of new, green growth crushed beneath Lynx’s body filled his nostrils. He gazed up at the sky—it was dull, brooding, but it was not Blackveil. The alien voices of the forest were gone, replaced by the ordinary minds of somnolent wolves awaiting the evening hunt and ground squirrels busy in their burrows.
he wind hissed across the tips of dead grasses, but the scent of new, green growth crushed beneath Lynx’s body filled his nostrils. He gazed up at the sky—it was dull, brooding, but it was not Blackveil. The alien voices of the forest were gone, replaced by the ordinary minds of somnolent wolves awaiting the evening hunt and ground squirrels busy in their burrows.
He sat up to the endless, undulating plains before him, and discovered stony ruins behind him, two partial walls, the rest crumbled to the ground. How had he gotten here? What happened? Silver glass glinted on his legs, torso, and arms, slivers he pulled out of his flesh with sharp little pains and tossed aside. They winked with light as they fell among the grasses.
They’d been in Castle Argenthyne, the chamber with the tree, but that’s as far as he got. Someone moaned nearby.
Another moan and he found Yates likewise speckled with silver glass, but worse, with shards deeply embedded like daggers, his flesh pale.
Lynx knelt beside him. “Yates!”
“The beast burned me out,” Yates whispered. “She wounded him good, but . . .”
And then Lynx remembered—Mornhavon the Black had occupied Yates’ body.
“I am ashes,” Yates said.
“No, I’ll take care of you,” Lynx replied, but with each moment, Yates slipped farther and farther away.
“Tell her . . .” Yates’ whisper was ever so faint. “Not her fault.”
“I will,” Lynx promised.
Yates did not respond. A stillness blanketed him; his eyes, his face, lost all animation. Lynx clenched his hands and growled as if to threaten away the looming grief. This was why he stayed solitary, why he remained aloof from the others. Forming attachments only meant being speared with unbearable pain when there was loss. His growl grew into a howl. He howled as the wolves do.
And when his voice faded over the plains, he gently closed Yates’ eyes.
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