As they retreated, Rogger tossed an oil lantern at the nearest tentacle. Fire splashed across its skin.
The captain shoved the thief toward the hatch. “Fool, you’ll burn my ship to the waterline before you even warm its hide. Ice is all that can harm a jelly shark.”
Rogger glanced at Tylar, his meaning clear. Act now, or see the ship sunk.
Tylar stopped a few paces from the door. “Get the captain below,” he whispered through clenched teeth.
Rogger nodded and hurried to the hatch with Grayl.
Tylar turned his back on the pair.
Tentacles squirmed over the stern deck’s rail and roiled toward him. He smelled the bitter tang of their poison in the salty air. Channels of oily yellow venom flowed beneath translucent skin. A mere touch would melt flesh to the bone, creating a liquid feast for the tinier, sucking tendrils that fringed each tentacle.
“Skags,” he swore and sheathed his sword. He needed both hands free.
“What is the fool doing?” the captain grumbled by the hatch.
“What must be done!” Rogger answered. “Now give the boy a bit of privacy.”
Tylar heard a scuffle and assumed Rogger was forcing the stubborn captain away. It was not his concern. As a questing tentacle snaked toward him, Tylar grabbed the smallest finger of his left hand. If this didn’t work, at least he’d have his right hand, his sword hand, to fend off the miiodon’s attentions. He bent his small finger backward to the point of pain. Just one fast snap, he told himself.
“Stop!”
The sudden shout almost did the job for him, but he released his strained finger and swung around. “What in all the gods’ names are you doing up here?” Tylar barked.
Delia strained to push past Rogger, but the thief had a grip on her upper arm. Here was the source of the scuffling. The captain stood behind the pair, clearly bewildered by his strange passengers.
“Let me go, you damnable oaf!” Delia yelled, finally shaking free. Her cheeks were fetchingly rosy against her snowy skin, but now was not the moment to notice such things.
Tylar danced closer to his companions as a persistent tentacle scented his blood. Delia hurried to his side with Rogger in tow. The captain kept guard at the hatch.
“When you all didn’t come below,” Delia said in a rush, “I knew what you were going to do.”
“We have no other weapon against the jelly shark.” Tylar glanced past his shoulder to the captain, careful of his words.
Only now did the young handmaiden seem to notice the Grim Wash’s new passenger. Her eyes widened and the rosy color fled her cheeks.
The miiodon, now settled and secure in its middeck roost, began its assault in earnest. Muscular tentacles ripped planks loose with loud pops. A foredeck hatch was torn free and flung through the air. It struck a flap of sail and tumbled into the sea. Closer, the roil of tentacles that had been sniffing over the rail of the stern deck now surged toward the gathering before the doorway.
“Get your arses down below!” the captain ordered. “I must seal this hatch.”
Rogger simply kicked the door closed in the captain’s face. “Then bolt the damn thing already!”
Delia reached a hand to Tylar’s elbow. “If you free the dred ghawl, there’s no way to bottle it back up. We don’t have any of Meeryn’s blood.”
Tylar knew this. They had traded the repostilary bearing the last of it to book passage and cover their escape. But what choice did they have now? He’d simply have to find another way to get rid of the daemon . . . or live with it. And living was the key point of it all.
“I have no other course,” he answered and grabbed his small finger again.
Delia kicked him in the shin. Unfortunately it wasn’t hard enough to shatter bone, but it did get his attention. “Miiodons fear icy water!”
“So we’ve been told,” Rogger said, urgency entering his voice as they were forced away from the hatch by the approach of snaking tentacles.
Tylar paused enough to listen. That was the strange part of this attack. Jelly sharks liked warm equatorial waters, not the cold of the Meerashe Deep. “What are you getting on about?”
Before Delia could answer, the sound of a hatch crashing open drew all their attention across the ship. Upon the foredeck, a lone sailor appeared with a raised sword. His eyes were wild, his gait wobbling. Drunk. It seemed some sought courage in a bottle, but found only stupidity.
He crossed to the rail that overlooked the miiodon. He cursed and shook his sword.
“Get back, man!” Tylar yelled.
The drunken sailor took his warning as encouragement and sliced at a tentacle that wandered too near. He cleaved clean through it, but he was rewarded with a spray of blood and venom to his face.
A scream tore from him as his flesh boiled and smoked. He fell to his knees, blinded. He clawed at his face in agony.
Delia cried out and turned away.
She needn’t have hidden her face. The miiodon surged toward the man, sensing the blood. Appendages crested over the foredeck rail and fell upon the sailor, covering him completely. In a heartbeat, poison silenced his cries.
“At least his death bought us some deck space,” Rogger said, ever practical.
With the jelly shark distracted by its meal, only a single tentacle still probed their deck.
Tylar drew them all to the rear rail.
“Maybe now’s the time to let loose that shadowy beast of yours,” Rogger persisted.
“No,” Delia said, rising from her shock. A hand darted into her robe, searching a pocket. “There’s another way.” But her voice had dropped in timbre, her confidence in whatever drew her up here clearly waning.
Tylar touched her shoulder and spoke softly. “What is it?”
Delia’s eyes were watery with fright, but she finally freed a crystal jar from a pocket. She held it out to Tylar.
It was an empty repostilary, like the one that had borne Meeryn’s blood. But it was not blood Delia wanted.
“We need your water.”
Tylar gaped at her. “What?”
“You want the man’s piss?” Rogger echoed his confusion.
Delia shoved the glass bottle toward Tylar. “Trust me! Please!”
Confused, he accepted the repostilary and glanced to Rogger.
The thief merely shrugged. “My mama taught me never to refuse a lady.”
Shaking his head and biting back a curse, Tylar swung away. He loosened the strings to his trousers and freed himself. He held the glass jar. Never in all his trials as a Shadowknight had he even been in such a dire predicament. If the jelly shark didn’t kill him, humiliation would.
He stared down at himself, at the priceless crystal repostilary. He hated to foul such a vessel with his own water, but like a good and noble knight, he kept his aim true. The repostilary was soon filled.
Before he could even tuck himself back into his trousers, Delia was there. She grabbed the crystal vessel and lifted it to the light. Her lips parted in relief. Lowering her arm, she held the repostilary out toward him again. “Blood.”
“What?”
“Just a drop . . . quickly.”
Tylar was beyond asking. The miiodon’s tentacles were showing a renewed interest in their party. He simply did as she told him and nicked the tip of his left thumb on his sword. He held forth the bleeding wound.
Delia kept a warding hand over the repostilary. Her eyes met his. “Think of ice. Water so cold it freezes with its mere touch.”
He nodded as she uncovered the jar.
“Concentrate hard!” she ordered.
He did, picturing in his mind’s eye a font of frigid water. He knew cold. He had once traveled to Ice Eyrie in winter, to hunt down a nasty band of bloodrunners. He had spent eight days on the frozen tundra. He remembered the frost that rimed his cloak, the ache of wind across his bare skin. Then he had stepped wrong, broken through a crust of ice, and fallen headlong into a blue tarn. He allowed the memory of that icy dunking to
wash through him.
A drop of blood fell into the repostilary.
Delia replaced the stopper, shook the vessel, then held it out. “Throw it.” She pointed to the middeck. “Toward the bulk of the creature.”
Tylar took the glass vessel. He was shocked to find the crystal had gone ice cold in his hand.
“Throw it!”
He arched, bringing his arm back, then flung the repostilary through the air. It sailed in a perfect arc and shattered against the broken mast stub, spraying the contents over the undulating flank of the jelly shark.
The miiodon reared up. Convulsing waves coursed outward across its skin from the site of the splash, darkening along the way. Tentacles contracted back toward their well-spring, curling in on themselves, leaving behind trails of sizzling poison like so much snail slime. The tang of venom choked the air.
“Seems the beastie don’t much like your piss,” Rogger said. “Not that I can blame it, having shared a cell with you.”
“It isn’t Tylar’s water the beast shuns,” Delia said, awe tracing her words. “It’s the Grace held within.”
The jelly shark writhed upon the middeck, rocking the ship with its mass. The dark stain upon its flesh continued to spread, as if the beast were being cooked from the inside.
“What’s happening?” Rogger asked.
Delia watched, her eyes studious. “A miiodon’s digestive venom is kept from consuming its own flesh by the beast’s body heat. That’s why the Chilldaldrii ice harpoons can fend off the creatures. A wound from an ice spear activates the jelly shark’s own poison around the point of contact, causing the venom to eat the beast’s flesh. The pain drives the creature back into the sea where it eventually heals.”
Tylar watched the darkened sections of the miiodon begin to melt and slough. If Delia was right, the miiodon wasn’t cooking from the inside out. It was eating itself from the inside out.
Finally, the jelly shark’s thickest tentacle, ending in a footpad, lashed out to the starboard rail. It grabbed hold and heaved its bulk over the side, seeking to escape the agony. The miiodon crashed gracelessly into the sea and sank away.
“Will it survive?” Rogger asked, leaning over the rail and watching the bubbling fade to empty seas.
“Doubtful,” Delia answered. “That was no mere harpoon that struck the beast, but the full Grace of a god’s blessing.”
Tylar remembered Delia saying something similar a moment before. “What are you talking about?”
She faced him. “You cast a blessing upon the beast, a charm of icy waters.”
“A charm from his piss?” Rogger interrupted.
She nodded. “And blood.”
Tylar remained very still. He was no Hand, trained in the art of Graces, but having been a Shadowknight he was not ignorant of how a god’s bodily humours functioned. Only the flows from a god could bless or charm.
“What are you saying?” he whispered hotly. “That my fluids have the same potency as a god’s?”
“Not any god’s,” Delia answered. “Meeryn’s.”
“Impossible,” Rogger muttered.
Delia kept her focus on Tylar. “I saw it the day you were whipped in the yard. I recognized the glow of Graces in your blood. When Meeryn died, she not only gifted you with the dred ghawl. She somehow granted you her power as a god. It flows through all your humours, not just your blood.”
It seemed impossible, but Tylar had only to stare at the empty decks as proof. He remembered the icy touch of the repostilary in his hand. Could it be?
First a shadowy daemon, now the very Graces of a god . . .
Before anyone could question further, the crash of a hatch drew their attention around. Captain Grayl appeared, followed by a cadre of sailors, all armed with swords.
The boulder of a man gaped at the empty decks. “By all the gods, it’s true! The jelly shark . . . it’s gone!”
“Back into the sea,” Rogger said.
“How . . . why . . . ?”
Rogger shrugged. “Mustn’t have liked the taste of your fine ship. Too salty, I’d guess.” The thief leaned toward Tylar and Delia, and whispered through his beard. “Perhaps we should continue this other discussion below.”
Tylar risked a slow nod.
The captain’s attention had focused elsewhere. His ship had been saved, but it was far from unharmed. The center mast was gone, and what was left of the middeck still steamed with poison. It would take some time to get her seaworthy again.
“You and you!” the captain yelled. “Get new planks from the bilge deck! You! Hoist up buckets of scrub salts! Where the naether is my first mate?”
Behind the captain’s back, Rogger motioned to the open hatch.
As a group, they retreated to the doorway leading to the lower decks. Tylar had his own questions.
But was he ready for the answers?
In a short time, the trio gathered in the cabin shared by Tylar and Rogger. It was no more than a cupboard with stacked beds against one wall and a single wardrobe. There was no window, only a lone lamp burning blubber from a leechseal. The smoky flame cast little light but plenty of stench.
Rogger sat on the bed, rubbing his bare feet, while Delia stood by the closed door, stiffly, as if unsure she should be in such close quarters with two men.
Tylar paced in front of the wardrobe.
Rogger spoke, picking at a blackened toenail. “So the boy here is crammed full up the arse with godly Graces.”
“I’m certain,” Delia said.
Rogger nodded. “Then I’m beginning to fathom how Tylar’s able to hold a daemon inside him . . . with that much Grace running through him.”
“There certainly might be a connection,” Delia agreed. “I hadn’t considered that.”
Tylar was less interested in such ponderings, but he kept silent.
Rogger scratched his beard. “Let’s start at the beginning. Meeryn was one of the water gods, right?”
Delia nodded. All the gods had varied talents and abilities, but all basically were categorized as one of four aspects: air, water, loam, and fire. Rogger raised one eyebrow. “And you just guessed that Tylar had the ability to freeze the jelly shark. That he could pass on an ice charm with his piss and—”
Delia cut him off. “We prefer the phrase yellow bile.”
“Yes, and shite is black bile. Pretty words for what can be found in a chamber pot. But tell me how you knew Tylar could perform such miraculous acts.”
“As I said, I suspected from the Grace glowing in his blood.”
“And so you just took a gamble with the jelly shark, hoping his piss was blessed with Grace, too.”
A bit of color flushed Delia’s cheeks. “Not so large a gamble as you might suppose. Who do you think has been emptying the chamber pots from your cabin?”
Rogger blinked a moment, glancing to the bedside, then laughed. “By all the gods, Delia, you little secret alchemist! You already knew Tylar’s humours were rich in Grace.”
“I didn’t want to say anything,” she mumbled. “Not until I was sure.”
Tylar studied his body as if it were a stranger. He spoke, turning his face to Delia. “You were a Hand to a god. Tell me what I can expect.” Her eyes grew sympathetic. “I can tell you only what I know of gods. A mortal man has never borne such power. You have good reason for caution.”
“Tell me of the gods, then.”
She nodded. “Each god holds eight humours. Blood is the key to all, but you must learn how each of the others serves. You’ve seen how your water could pass on a Grace, but it lasts only a short time. It would take . . . well . . .” She motioned to her waist.
“His seed,” Rogger filled in.
She nodded. “It would take such a humour to permanently pass on a Grace to a living person or animal.”
“While my sweat could do the same to an object, something inanimate,” Tylar said. “Like blessing a Shadowknight’s cloak.” He knew that such sacred garb was anointed in the sweat of god
s from all four aspects. It was this charmed blessing that granted the cloth the ability to shift shadows.
“Exactly,” Delia said. “All the remaining humours are what we call qualifiers, refiners of a charm.” She touched the corner of her eye. “Tears hold the ability to enhance a blessing or charm already laid.” She touched her mouth. “While saliva contains the ability to weaken the same. But such an effect’s duration depends on the quantity applied.”
“That still leaves two others,” Rogger said, ticking off with his fingers.
She nodded. “Sputum, or phlegm, is more complicated, used more in the field of alchemy. Such a humour can combine the Graces from various aspects, such as a fusion of fire and water. The combinations are myriad and would require a skilled alchemist to explain in more detail. I don’t fully—”
“Yes, whatever,” Rogger said. “And we all know what the last does. Black bile. We ran into a pair of bloodnullers in the dungeons.”
Tylar held back a shudder, remembering their fetid touch. Black bile, the soft solids of a god, wiped all blessings away, turning the charmed back into the ordinary.
“Yes,” Delia said. “Bloodnullers are smeared in the bile of all four aspects, fused with an alchemy of sputum. That is why they can wipe all blessings away.”
Tylar shook his head. “But I was cleansed by nullers in the dungeons of Summer Mount. Why wasn’t I stripped then, made normal?”
“Because you are not just superficially charmed or blessed.
You are Grace. Like a god. It forms continuously in your humours.”
Tylar felt sickened by this thought.
“What about his blood, then?” Rogger continued. “You said it was the key to all.”
Delia glanced away. Tylar noted the tears moistening her eyes. She had been the blood servant to Meeryn. It had been her honor . . . and now it was her loss.
They waited in silence.
“Blood,” she began softly, “is indeed the key to all. It is tied to the will of the god. They are one and the same. It takes blood and concentration to bend the general properties of an aspect, like water, into a specific charm.”
“Such as the charm of ice,” Tylar said. He remembered her request earlier to focus his mind on cold water as he dripped his blood into the repostilary.