On the Isle of Sound and Wonder (23 page)

Karaburan kept his head down, stealing small glances at his master as he glided toward him. At last, Dante stopped and placed a hand on Karaburan’s patchy shoulder with a surprisingly gentle touch.

“Well done,” Dante said in his quiet, distant voice, and Karaburan felt his insides sink in equal measure with his thumping heart, pleased to have done well by his master. It made his head hurt, the way he could feel both pride and shame at the same time over this.

Oh, I am a terrible thing . . . those men will die at his hands,
he thought trembling.
Oh, Mira! I could not do it . . . I am sorry.
Karaburan watched as Dante strode past him and down the passage after Truffo and Stephen, into the cool shadows of the cave.

1854

Corvina woke in darkness, with only a fleeting memory of the look in the duke’s eyes before he struck her with her own staff. Her bones ached and rang like a gong that had been hit too hard, and her stomach churned like an ocean within her.

The dark was disorienting—she could not tell where she was or what time of day it was, or even how long she’d been unconscious. She felt at herself in the dark, her hands weakly seeking out her clothes and hair. Other than her pounding headache and unhappy stomach, she appeared to be unharmed. She groaned as she shifted her weight and tried to sit up.

The room was very small, and she could not quite get her balance, even while seated. She sat still a while, breathing slowly to center herself. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when light spilled suddenly into the little room. She recoiled, covering her eyes quickly with her hands.

“Oh, dear, is that too bright?”

She peeped through her fingers, her eyes watering at the brightness. The man in the door was broad-shouldered and tall. His voice was cracked and roughened, and the smell of salt and brine came in through the door with him.

Oh,
Corvina thought, as she recognized the creaking of the walls and the smell of the sea.
I’m on a ship.

“Ever so sorry about the cramped quarters,” said the man, with a sneer that made it quite clear that he was not sorry at all. “The duke said to give you the finest chambers we could manage, you know, but this ship’s got a lot of folks down below what need the space themselves, see. A lot of folks. And besides that, we wouldn’t want the likes of you mingling with the likes of them . . . no telling what a witch like you might do, Lady Psychorrax.”

Corvina shut her eyes, the light piercing her closed eyelids and burning at the borders of her mind. She remembered the duke, and the storm which had ceased to rage the moment the little baby was born.
Psychorrax!
he had said.
Heartbreak!
Witches, like Corvina.
Psychorrax!
Even though she had tried so hard to keep the duchess alive. She had tried everything she knew, and it hadn’t been enough. That storm had been too strong, and the baby had to be born. Corvina pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, as if to wake herself from a nightmare.

“Oh, don’t you fret, milady,” simpered the sailor in the doorway. “I’m here to see you gets special attentions, see. The others downstairs ain’t got nothing. But you’re special, at least ‘til we get to the colony, you are. You’ll all end up on the same block, you know. But for now, I’m here to make sure you’ve got everything what you need for a comfortable, pleasurable journey. Courtesy of the duke himself.”

Corvina’s stomach lurched again, and she forced herself to look up, even in the bright light.
No
, she thought, but she couldn’t find her voice. The sailor chuckled, slipping inside the tiny room and closing the door behind him.
No. No, no. Not this.
The sound of his belt coming undone brought bile to her throat as she scrambled to a corner, the straw on the floor shifting and whispering beneath her.

Stop,
Corvina thought as he knelt.
Please stop.

She could not speak, her throat was so dry, but even if she had screamed aloud, she did not believe he would have stopped. Her chest constricted and she struck out in the dark, but he only chuckled calmly, like a farmer bridling an unruly horse.

Afterward, Corvina lay in the small room, feeling the ocean push and pull at the ship that held her, and, for days, drifted in and out of a restless, painfully sore sleep. Time had no meaning any longer, though she knew it must be passing still, for occasionally she would wake with a bucket of mushed food or grog in the cell with her. She tried to tell herself that the conditions of the slave ship were definitely worse below decks, outside of her small chamber. She tried to tell herself the voices sneering “Psychorrax!” and “Witch!” were only the sailors passing by her cell, and not voices trapped within her own mind. She wept from time to time, but she was so dehydrated and exhausted that she could do little but lie still in the straw.

She huddled there in the dark, each moment passing as an hour, each hour as a day, and, like grains of sand through an hourglass, she wasted away, her dreams, thoughts, and very self, crumbling and slipping away through the cracks. The darkness bore down on her and confused her mind until, by and by, she did not care anymore how dark it was or how long it had been since she’d had fresh air, fresh clothes, or clean skin.

Sometimes, Corvina slept like a corpse, unmoving and dreamless. Sometimes she could not sleep, because the sailor was there with her, touching her, moving in the darkness. It was all a nightmare.

* * *

Rain pummeled the upper decks of the ship. The hull creaked and groaned in protest of the harsh treatment, but they sailed on nonetheless. Corvina was sick to her stomach in the tiny room, trying to ride out the rough weather. She focused her mind inward, steadied her breathing, and tried to summon any last bit of energy she had to calm her nausea, to soothe her pains and aches, and try not to think about how she would either die at sea or die as a slave.

Great waves sucked at the ship’s hull, like an enormous lizard scavenging an egg, but the ship strained onward, buffeted by wind and lightning. Corvina shut her eyes and begged whatever little power she had left within her to wake.

Do something,
she pleaded feverishly to the nameless magic. The ship lurched again.
Do something! I can’t, I can’t . . . I want one more chance. One more, please, just one.

Corvina braced herself in the corner of the small, stinking room. She mumbled invocations of power, the words tumbling tonelessly from her lips like the beginning of a flood breaking through a dam, and shut her eyes hard to block out the lurching walls. Her palms pressed against the rough wooden floor as the sea threatened to toss the entire ship over.

There was a great crack of thunder and, for a moment, Corvina’s stomach leapt up into her throat before crashing back down again. The ship had been airborne, thrown high by a wave, and then dropped down again like a child’s toy in the bath.

Corvina opened her eyes, gasping at the pounding of her own heart.
I won’t survive this,
she thought, faintly. She thought of the poor duchess and the tiny little girl that had been born, who stopped the rain in Neapolis.
Bless her, even if her father betrayed me, used me . . . Bless her, and bless me. I’m done for.

She shut her eyes. The sounds of the raging weather went silent. She opened her eyes again.

The ship no longer rocked violently around her, and the roaring sounds of the storm were muffled now. Her stomach calmed, her nerves soothed, and the soft silence descended around her, as though she were not quite attached to her body.

Am I dead?

“No,” said a voice cheerfully. “You’re on pause.”

Corvina’s voice caught in her throat.

“You seem to be in trouble,” observed the voice primly. “I might be able to help you.”

Who are you?
she thought, staring into the dark room.
Where are you?

“I’m right here,” said the voice, suddenly soft and lush and kind. A cool, smooth hand rested on her cheek, and she flinched as he unfolded from the darkness like a mirage in the desert.

He was very beautiful.

He held a cup to her lips and helped her drink—the water was clean and cool. Corvina gulped it down, grasping his wrist with both hands to steady the cup. When the water was gone, she sank back against the wall and gasped for breath. Her visitor smiled at her, crouching as lightly as an animal, his pale gray eyes impossibly bright in the darkness.

He was slight of figure and not quite as tall as she, but his brightness filled the room, making her feel small. His hair was windswept, voluminous but short, and silvery-blue, darkening at the roots. His skin shimmered like light over water, translucent and pale as porcelain. His mouth and nose were smallish and round, and his eyes were dark and alluring. His build was lean but strong, and he was, for all she could tell, quite naked, although his appearance blurred if she moved her eyes away from his face.

He gave her a serene, gentle smile, and she felt calm radiate from his hands, which smoothed back her hair and cupped her face.

“A spirit,” she said, softly.

“Yes,” he replied, lifting his brows and beaming at her, his teeth perfectly neat and gleaming. If he had been taller, he might have been one of the statues Corvina remembered seeing in the temples in Greccia during her time there—handsome, smooth, well-muscled. There was a delicateness about his hands that was almost feminine. She wondered for a moment if it was a female. As if hearing her thoughts, he chuckled and batted his long lashes at her.

Corvina let her head rest back against the wall of the cell and shut her eyes, confused and exhausted.

“Poor thing,” cooed the spirit, still touching her face with his breezy fingertips. “What a long path that has led you here. What troubles you’ve seen, and still see.”

Corvina let her eyes open by a slit, and studied his face. He was all innocence and proper sympathy. She didn’t like it. “Who are you?” she asked again.

He smiled brightly, like the moon coming out from the clouds. “A spirit, as you say, sweet lady. You are unwell, and you are likely to die here if you don’t find a way out soon. Dangerous weather out there,” he added, eyeing the ceiling.

“And you can help me?” Corvina was unconvinced. The storm was bad, yes, but trafficking with spirits was an unruly business, and she had never liked them to begin with. They were tricky.

The spirit tilted his head like a bird and took her hand in both of his own softly. “I would like to,” he admitted. “I would very much like to help you, if you can find it in your heart to let me.”

“Let you?” echoed Corvina. The spirit smiled coyly at her, brushing his thumbs along her hand and wrist lightly as feathers.

“I’m sure a lady of your kind has something to offer me,” he mused softly, looking into her eyes. “In fact, I know you do.” One of his pale hands left hers and landed softly on her stomach.

Corvina’s eyes went wide, then narrowed sharply at him. She pulled her hand away and tried to push him back. “No, I don’t,” she said, gruffly, feeling suddenly groggy from his close proximity and the lack of sound outside of the little room.

The spirit laughed softly, like wind chimes. “How can you be sure? How many times has that sailor lain with you? How long have you been trapped in here? How many times have you been ill?” He rose, and walked—glided—about the little room thoughtfully, watching her as calmly as any predator.

“No,” Corvina said through gritted teeth, but there was dampness on her cheeks, her eyelashes, and she put her hands over her belly in fading denial. “No, no . . .”

“You’ve always wanted a child,” he remarked thoughtfully, his expression growing somber. “And now you’ll have one . . . if you can get out of this mess, that is.” His head tilted to the side again. “Oh, how sad. How sad, sorceress. A child of rape is still a child, and it’s still yours. Don’t you want a second chance? Wouldn’t you like to see that child live? Or better yet, perhaps . . . give it the chance it deserves to live a better life than even you might give it?”

Corvina stared back at him. “Speak plainly, spirit. Tell me exactly what you want.”

“I want your child. I will give him to someone who really, truly wants a baby, someone who can’t have what they want. It would be a blessing, truly, it would. You’d be a hero.”

“And in exchange?” Corvina’s head swam.

“I’ll save your life, sorceress. I’ll deliver you from this place and bring you somewhere you can live in peace, unhindered by men and politics. You’ll be free.”

“That’s all?” Corvina sat up. How could that possibly be all? “I agree to give you this child, and you will bring me to a safe place, where I can live in peace?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

The spirit’s eyes were round and shining, his little mouth somber with promise. He nodded several times, childlike. “Yes, exactly. That’s all.”

“Tell me what will become of the child.” Corvina wasn’t sure why she wanted to know—perhaps because the spirit was right, that the child was hers, no matter what else was true now.