Time didn't seem to pass—the light of the caves was unchanging. The travelers continued on, not knowing whether it was night or day, whether one hour had passed, or three. They were fueled by endless energy, bewitched by the white, shining labyrinth.
* * *
Volcrian's head snapped around as a cry echoed from the crow's nest.
"Look there! Up above!"
He squinted against the rain, searching the gray backdrop of the clouds. Finally, his eyes landed on a humanoid shape flying unsteadily through the windy skies. It glinted gold against the overcast sky.
Slowly and thoughtfully, a smile tugged at his lips.
"Cap'n, Cap'n!" one of his lackeys called. "'Tis some sort of demon!"
But not the demon I'm chasing, the mage grinned. Then he glanced at the small, wiry sailor who stood on deck; the man motioned wildly upwards. His shipmates paused, also staring.
“'Tis unnatural,” one murmured.
“A sign from the Goddess,” another said shrewdly. “These are bad waters.”
“Aye,” a third agreed.
“Magnificent, isn't it?” Volcrian said loudly, striding before his crew. The last thing he needed was a mutiny fueled by superstition. “A rare sight, indeed. 'Tis only a golden eagle flying overhead.”
The first sailor looked at him suspiciously. He was a short, skinny man, perhaps underfed since a very young age.
“Doesn't look like a golden eagle,” the man muttered.
Volcrian waved an idle had. “'Tis the sun playing tricks on your eyes,” he said. “Why don't you break out a new flask of rum? Share it with the men? It's been a long voyage and you all deserve a break.”
The men grinned at this, lopsided looks that would frighten their own mothers. They lumbered off across the deck, shouting to the rest of the crew, heading below to the bunks. Only a scattered few remained on-deck to tend the sails.
Volcrian turned back to the sea. His eyes narrowed, following the Dracian's form across the sky. He hadn't seen a fully transformed Dracian in quite some time. He wondered where the fellow was going to, and whether it had anything to do with his prey.
There was no chance of pursuing the lone traveler. It would take far too long to turn the boat around. Even as he watched, the winds picked up and the Dracian was carried into the clouds, lost from sight.
He leaned against the railing of the ship, looking down at the fierce water. The scent of magic was strong over the waves. It crawled across his skin: the vague tint of iron and a rare sweetness, like rust. His Wolfy senses were keen enough to pick it up.
The spells were old, tied to the waves below and the clouds above. Immense power saturated the skies, turning them dark and turbulent. These were war spells, cast during a time when nature had been irrelevant, when the Races had viciously tried to stamp each other out.
“We are halfway to the Isles,” a voice reached him.
He turned slightly. The priestess stood about two yards away, smothered in her large cloak. She approached the railing and leaned against it in an identical fashion. “Our compasses are beginning to fail.”
“You must guide the ship,” Volcrian said. He wasn't worried. She wasn't a normal human anymore—not even a spirit, but something of his own creation. And as a vessel of magic, she had many uses.
“The dead can only do so much,” the priestess said tiredly.
“More than you think,” Volcrian murmured, momentarily lost in thought. Humans lived in a shell, ignorant to the ways of the afterlife. But the dead were far from asleep. No, they were sensitive to the balance in the world; they became part of it, ingrained in its threads, connected to a great energy that held all things together.
“Why do you follow them so?” the priestess asked.
Volcrian turned his icy gaze upon her. “What?”
“The assassin, the girl with the Cat's Eye—why do you care? Wouldn't you rather have peace?”
Volcrian glared at her, his anger bubbling to the surface. “My brother does not have peace,” he growled. “And so I will not rest.”
The priestess studied him with glazed eyes. The wind swept past her, blowing back her hood, carrying away strands of fine white hair. Her skin was the same lavender-gray as the clouds. In that moment, it seemed like a light glowed within her, something unseen by the physical eye. She quickly pulled her hood back over her head.
Volcrian eyed her in distaste. “You challenge me because you want me to release you,” he said angrily. “You think you will be free after your body has perished. But the underworld has its own laws, my love. Your spirit will still be bound to me.”
“The Goddess will come for me,” the priestess said, raising her head a notch, a stubborn tilt to her chin.
Volcrian grinned viciously. “And what of my Goddess? The Lady of the Oceans?” he replied. “You think She won't claim you as Her own? You are tied to me, darling. Physically and spiritually.”
The priestess shook her head stiffly. “Your blood stains me, but blood can be washed out.”
“By what? Your purity?” Volcrian sneered. He turned back to the waves—they reflected the turmoil inside of him, the rage that yearned for release. “Stupid,” he muttered. “Still clinging to your life, even as your hands decay in front of you. Your story is over, child. Accept it. You are my slave.”
The corpse-woman was silent. She gazed out over the waves. He didn't care to watch her face. Her expressions were cold and numb, spread across stiff muscles.
“Your anger has cursed the world,” the priestess said bitterly, quietly. “Your rage is killing everything. Can you not see that? It no longer glorifies your brother. Darker powers are at work.”
“I don't care,” Volcrian said bluntly. He felt an odd buzzing at the back of his mind, some residue of truth, but he shook it away. Perhaps his magic had changed him, created him into something new. But he welcomed it. He never wanted to feel powerless again. He would kill the assassin, and then...then he didn't care what happened. Perhaps he would die as well, perhaps he would live on. But it didn't matter. He couldn't have peace until the killer was laid to rest.
“You are evil,” the priestess said quietly.
“And you are a nuisance!” Volcrian snapped. “Go and consult with the other ghosts. I know you can see them. Find one to lead our ship through this storm.”
The priestess stared at him blankly.
“Now!” Volcrian growled.
Her body shuddered and obeyed, turning toward the captain's cabin. Volcrian watched her wander away, her steps bent and uneven, as though one leg were shorter than the other. He glared at her back. She had no choice but to obey his orders, whether she willed to or not. He didn't like the fact that she remembered so much of her past life. Something had to have gone wrong with the spell. Or the Goddess is protecting her, his thoughts whispered, but he dismissed the idea. The Wind Goddess didn't care about Her creations. She was as distant as the wind and just as weak. If She had any power over the natural world, then She would have averted Etienne's death—saved him. But She hadn't. And now Volcrian knew that She couldn't.
He turned back to the ocean, closing his eyes, inhaling deeply. The saltwater almost smelled like blood. Soon. Soon he would have his prey trapped on a minuscule island...then there would be no escape.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LORI LEFT THE sickroom with Ferran in tow. It was late morning aboard the Aurora. Five days had passed and they had barely slept during that time. Ferran had rested most of the previous night, recovering from his use of the Cat's Eye, while Lori watched over her patients. Thanks to her persistent care, the sailors appeared to be making a full recovery. Their appetites were returning and one had even climbed to his feet last night, demanding a trip to the gambling hall.
A few more days of food and rest and they should be fine, she thought.
Two sailors waited for them out in the hallway, each holding a rag over their mouths, reluctant to catch the disease. Lori smiled at them wearily. “No need for
that now,” she said. “They're all cured.”
The men nodded and lowered their rags. “For how long?” one asked.
Lori paused; she hadn't given that possibility much thought. She frowned. “Until they contract it again, I suppose,” she said. It dampened her spirits considerably. No matter how many Cat's-Eye stones they had, the plague would remain in the land, lingering in the soil, rotting the fields. They couldn't stop it like this—only delay it for a while.
“Where is Silas?” she asked. She was tired to the bone, but thoughts of The Book of the Named and the Sixth Race were circling her mind. “I want to speak with him.”
The sailor nodded. “This way.”
He split away from his companion and led her down a narrow hallway. Lori tried to keep up, forcing herself to find the energy. Ferran followed slowly behind, quieter than usual, one hand held to his stomach. Despite his night's rest, he still had dark circles under his eyes.
The sailor led them toward the stern of the ship. They walked for several minutes, turning down hallways and up small flights of stairs. Despite the thick wooden walls, she could still hear sounds from the great kitchens below, the smell of food wafting up through the floorboards, the occasional clash of plates, the shout of an angry cook, a furious quarrel of voices, and then laughter.
The sailor took them up to the very top of the ship. They opened a latch in the roof and climbed on top of the Aurora. Lori was struck by fresh air, brisk and salty, carrying the scent of the ocean. She paused at the top of the ladder and pulled in several deep breaths, feeling rejuvenated. The sunlight warmed her skin. She climbed the last few rungs and looked around. From this view, she felt like she was truly on a pirate ship. The top deck still carried mariner paraphernalia—lifebuoys, metal cleats, giant capstans used for reeling ropes, three masts, and even a crow's nest. From this perspective, the boat looked like it was ready to launch, leave port and take to the ocean. But of course, that was impossible.
At the very rear of the ship, a few steps led down to an ornately carved door with a large brass handle. She guessed these quarters belonged to Silas.
The sailor opened the door and gestured for them to enter the hallway. Lori's foot landed on a thick, hand-woven rug of dark green wool. A yellow and red pattern crisscrossed the weave, forward and back on itself like tangled vines.
Down the short hallway, they entered a large cabin that spanned the entire width of the Aurora. The rug ended, giving way to shining wooden floors of deep mahogany. The spacious room was bedecked with oil paintings and tapestries, gleaming hardwood furniture and stuffed armchairs. The artwork looked expensive and rare. Probably stolen, she thought wryly.
A giant desk stood in front of her, complete with quill and parchment, large wax candles and various compasses and protractors. Behind the desk was a series of long windows looking out over the city of Sonora. She gazed through them now, drawn to the sunlight. She could see the misshapen roofs stretching out before her, converted ships and wooden buildings, winding streets and a myriad of chimneys and flagstaffs. Bright blue water stretched into the distance, covered by a thin sheen of mist, slowly evaporating in the mid-morning light.
The city was curved into a horseshoe shape to match the natural formation of Rascal Bay, perfectly scooped from the cliffs. Lori's eyes followed the coastline, dipping inward and then out again. The Aurora was positioned at the very north end, built lengthwise, its bow facing the ocean while the aft faced the city. From this point, the buildings at the opposite end of the bay appeared like gray smudges, barely discernible from each other.
The sailor joined her at the window and undid the latch, opening it onto a balcony that bordered the entire rear of the ship, perhaps sixty feet across. A series of potted plants lined the railing, overgrown with vines of small purple flowers. The sea breeze was cool and refreshing, counteracting the heat from the sun.
A table and chairs stood at the corner of the balcony, the side closest to the ocean. She turned, noting the breakfast dishes: two covered plates and a steaming pot of tea.
Captain Silas sat in a large, comfortable-looking chair, his legs kicked up on the railing of the ship. On this morning, he wore a sleek shirt of canary yellow silk. Large brass buttons lined the front of the shirt, open halfway down his chest. He wore bright blue trousers buttoned at the calves, tall white stockings and buckled shoes. His red hair hung loosely around his shoulders, bright copper in the sunlight. Lori thought he looked more like a dandy than a pirate.
“Join me for breakfast?” he said, motioning to the two chairs opposite him. It wasn't truly a request, but Lori was not of a mind to refuse. She sat down immediately and uncovered a plate of bacon, eggs and beans. Ferran sat down a second later. They dug in with gusto.
Silas waited for them to finish eating while he sipped his tea. He commented on the weather, making small talk, though Lori's mouth was too full to really respond. Finally she sat back with a sigh, pushing the plate away.
“I assume you enjoyed the fare?” Silas asked, glancing back and forth between her and Ferran. Ferran took the remaining bacon from her plate and wolfed it down.
“It was very good,” Lori conceded.
Ferran spoke around his mouthful of bacon. “New cook I take it?” he asked. “The last time we sailed, I found rat pellets in my oatmeal.”
“Raisins,” Silas corrected, his eyes narrowed. “Except for that one time on the Glass Coast, when we were low on rations.”
Ferran winced, pushing away his empty plate. “It left an impression,” he replied.
Silas grinned at this, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
Lori frowned. She hadn't realized the two had traveled together. But of course they would, she admonished. A collector and a treasure hunter would make fast friends. Fast and fleeting, she guessed. They certainly weren't very chummy now.
It suddenly made sense how he knew Ferran's last name. She winced at that. Ebonaire. She had meant to ask Ferran about that already—but there had been men to heal, and now was not the right time either.
“So to business,” Lori said, decidedly changing the topic. “How do we retrieve the book?”
Silas gave her a broad smile. “Why, we go to the City of Crowns, of course.”
“Of course,” she echoed, her thoughts already moving ahead. She was filled with a keen frustration—she had to get the book for Sora, no matter what. But the City of Crowns was a vast metropolis, home to over a hundred thousand people. Where to begin?
She glanced at Ferran, who was watching Silas with a slight scowl. “It won't be easy,” the treasure hunter said. “There are hundreds of nobility who could have hired those assassins to retrieve the book.”
“Assuming it was the nobility,” Lori pointed out. The men gave her a curious look, and she continued. “Perhaps the assassins were working on their own. And there's no guarantee that the book is still in the city. That's where the portal led to, but they could have moved on.”
“We'll have to go there anyway to track it down,” Silas said.
There was a beat of silence. “You're traveling with us?” Lori asked.
“Aye,” Silas said. “To retrieve my book. I only intended to let you borrow it. And now that I know someone else is interested...I want it back.”
“You want it....” Lori's voice trailed off. Her thoughts moved quickly, dissecting the situation. They had to travel to the City of Crowns—a journey she did not relish. And now they would have a third party in tow. Silas must not realize that they needed the book to reseal the Dark God. Their journey wouldn't end in Crowns, whether or not he was with them.
She considered mentioning it, but decided not to. They would deal with Silas when the time came.
“We need to consult our captive, find out where the book was taken,” Ferran said. He glanced at Silas. “He has returned to consciousness, I'm assuming?”
Silas waved a hand through the air, as though swatting away a fly. “We've already looked into it,” he said. “My
men and I did the job. I didn't think a Healer would approve of our methods.” He gave Lori a pointed look.
She raised an eyebrow. “You mean torture?” she asked bluntly.
Silas nodded.
Lori felt a surge of discomfort. No, as a Healer she could not condone torture. Not only was it cruel and barbaric, but prisoners often said all manner of things that weren't true—anything to make the torture stop.
“What did he say?” she asked stiffly.
Silas shrugged and took another sip of tea. “Nothing, really. You know how the Sixth Race are. They're trained to endure pain. He was hiding something, but wouldn't let the words pass his lips. Just kept moaning on and on about the Dark God's wrath. He said that he didn't care if we killed him, because 'it's all going to end soon anyway.'” Silas glanced at Ferran, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Sounds like every fanatic I've ever known.”
Ferran nodded but didn't return the smile. He appeared thoughtful. “Did he mean the Kingdom was coming to an end? Or the King's reign? Much of the nobility would like to see a regime change.”
Silas nodded. “A political coup, perhaps.”
Lori frowned. “Did he mention the plague? What did he say exactly?”
“Specifically, he said that the Dark God is rising and that humanity will be put in their place.” The Dracian shrugged uncomfortably. “Then he just repeated it over and over.”
“Nothing else? He didn't use any other words?” Lori prompted. She let out a short breath. “It doesn't sound like the nobility are behind this. The weapons of the Dark God wouldn't be any help to political radicals. Even if they summon the god, His power won't be easily controlled.” She paused in thought. “The plague will continue to infect the Kingdom. What if the Sixth Race wants it to?”
“But who’s to say that they won't become infected as well?” Silas asked skeptically. “Seems a bit risky, don't you think?”
Lori shook her head. “Maybe not,” she said. A terrible sense of foreboding settled in her gut. Maybe the Sixth Race were immune to the plague. She had more questions—ones that Silas couldn't answer. “Can I speak to the prisoner?”