“Thank you. For everything.” She bowed low. “I am honored to have been the student of the Driftwood Prince.”
He returned the bow. “I am honored to have been your teacher, Tané.” With that, he ushered her toward the doors. “Go, now. Before someone catches you.”
The storm still raged around the island, though the thunder was more distant now. Rain drenched Tané as she swung along the rope bridges and picked her way to the hidden steps.
The village was silent. She crouched behind a fallen tree and watched for any movement. There was a flickering light in one of the old houses. A wind bell chimed outside it.
There were two lookouts. Too busy muttering and smoking to see her. She slipped past the buildings and ran over the stiltgrass, making for the stone-cut stair that would take her to the beach.
The steps flew beneath her boots. When she reached the bottom, she faced the sea.
Rowing boats had been pulled on to the sand. There would be more lookouts on the ship, but she could fight them. If she had to shed blood, so be it. She had already lost her honor, her name, and her dragon. There was nothing left to lose.
Tané turned and looked once more at Feather Island, her place of exile. One more home she had gained and lost. She must be destined to be rootless, like a seed tossed on the wind.
She ran and dived beneath the waves. The storm roiled the sea, but she knew how to survive its wrath.
Her heart was rising from the dead. She had worn armor to survive her exile, so thick she had almost forgotten how to feel. Now she savored the warm embrace of salt water, its tang in her mouth, the sense that she could be swept away if she put a hand or foot wrong.
When she came up for breath, she considered the ship. The sails were stowed. A white flag lashed at the stern, emblazoned with a sword and crown. That was the ensign of Inys, the richest nation in the West. Another great breath, and she was under again, deep beneath the waves.
The hull was close enough to touch. She waited for a swell to lift her and grabbed a rope that trailed down its side.
She knew ships. With the jewel as her crew, she could tame this wooden beast.
There was no one on the beach. Elder Vara had not betrayed her to the elders. In the morning, there would be no trace of the ghost she had become.
It was the wind chimes that kept Loth awake. They had not ceased to ring all night. On top of that, he was cold and salt-encrusted, surrounded by the smell and snores of unwashed pirates. Harlowe had told them all to get some sleep before they sought sweet water.
The captain himself had kept a vigil by the hearth. Loth watched the flames dance over his face. They brought out the white tattoo that snaked around his forearm and glinted on the locket he was studying.
Loth sat up and pulled on his shirt. Harlowe glanced at him, but said nothing as he left.
It was still raining outside. Melaugo, who was on watch, looked him up and down.
“Midnight stroll?”
“I’m afraid sleep eludes me.” Loth buttoned his shirt. “I won’t be long.”
“Have you told your shadows?”
“I have not. And I would be grateful if you would leave them to rest.”
“Well, they must be very tired in all that mail. Surprised they haven’t rusted. I doubt these scholars are going to waylay you,” Melaugo said, “but keep your eyes open. And take this.” She tossed him her whistle. “We don’t know their real feelings toward us.”
Loth nodded. He coaxed his sore feet back into his boots.
He walked beneath the canopy of trees, following the few lanterns that still flickered, and took the stair to the beach again. His steps had never been so heavy. When he finally reached the bottom, he found a natural shelter and planted himself on the sand, wishing he had remembered his cloak.
If the storms continued, they might be marooned on this Saint-forsaken island for weeks, and time was running out. He could not fail Sabran now. Lightning splintered the darkness yet again as he pictured the fall of Inys—the certain outcome of his failure.
That was when he saw the woman.
She was halfway across the beach. In the instant she was illuminated, he saw a tunic of dark silk and a curved sword at her side. One smooth dive took her into the sea.
Loth flinched upright. He watched the waves for any sign of her, but no more lightning came.
There were two reasons he could imagine that one of the scholars would swim, under cover of night, to the Rose Eternal. One was to slaughter the outsiders, perhaps to prevent an outbreak of plague. The other was to steal the ship. Sanity told him to summon Harlowe, but nobody would hear the whistle over this wind.
Whatever this woman planned to do, he had to stop her.
His feet scuffed through sand. He lurched into the water. It was folly to plunge in when the waves were this rough, but there was no other way.
He swam beneath the arch. When they were children, he and Margret had sometimes paddled in Elsand Lake, but noblemen had little need to swim. On any other night, he might have been too frightened to attempt it.
A wave crashed over his head, thrusting him deep beneath the surface. He kicked hard and broke the surface, spluttering.
Shouts rose from the decks of the Rose Eternal. A whistle shrilled. His hands found the rope, then the laths of wood that served as a ladder.
Thim was crumpled by the mast. The woman in red silk was on the quarterdeck. Her sword clashed with that of the carpenter. Black hair whipped around her face.
Loth wavered, his empty hands clutching at air. Three parries and a slash, and the carpenter stumbled, blood on his tunic. The woman kicked him neatly over the gunwale. Another man hurled himself at her back, but she whirled out of his grip and threw him over her shoulder. A moment later, he had followed the carpenter into the sea.
“Stop,” Loth shouted.
Her gaze snapped to him. In a blink, she had vaulted the balustrade and landed in a crouch.
Loth turned and ran. He could use a sword well enough, but this woman was no timid scholar. Whoever she was, she fought like the storm. Quick as lightning, lithe as water.
As his boots pounded across the deck, Loth snatched up an orphaned sword. Behind him, the woman unsheathed a knife. When he got to the prow, Loth scrambled on to the gunwale, teeth clenched, hands slippery with rainwater. He would jump before she reached him.
Something struck the base of his skull. He collapsed on to the deck, heavy as a sack of grain.
Hands took hold of him and turned him on to his back. The woman held her knife to his throat. As she did it, he caught sight of what was in her other hand.
It was identical in shape to the one Ead possessed, and glistered in the same unnatural way. Like moonlight on the sea.
“The other jewel,” he whispered, and touched it with one finger. “How— how can you have it?”
Her eyes narrowed. She looked at the jewel, then at him. Then she glanced up, toward the sounds of shouting on the beach, and a mask of resolve dropped over her features.
That was the last thing Loth remembered. Her face, and its faint scar, shaped just like a fishhook.
60
East
In the Unending Sea, farther east than most ships dared to sail, and at the ninth hour of night, the Pursuit floated beneath the assembly of stars the Seiikinese had named the Magpie.
Padar, their navigator, had stayed true to his word. To him, the celestial bodies were pieces on the gameboard of the sky. No matter how and where they moved, he knew a way to read them. Despite the gyre, he had known well where this star would be at this hour, and how to get there. On the deck beside him, Niclays Roos waited.
Jan, he thought, I’m almost there.
Laya Yidagé stood with folded arms beside him. Beneath the shadow of her hood, her jaw had a grim set.
The Southern Star twinkled. Watched by her crew, the Golden Empress rotated the wheel and, as the sails netted the wind, the Pursuit began to turn.
“Onward,” she called, and her pirates took up the cry. Niclays felt their joy magnified in his own heart.
Onward indeed, to where the maps ended. To the mulberry tree, and to wonders untold.
61
East
When he woke, the cold was brutal, and the sky wore the sickly purple of dusk, casting everything into shadow. It took Loth a moment to realize he was bound.
Spray dampened his face. His head pounded horribly, and his senses were sludge.
He blinked the fur of exhaustion away. In the dim glow of the lanterns, he made out a figure at the helm of the Rose Eternal.
“Captain Harlowe?”
No reply. When his vision sharpened, he saw that it was the woman from Feather Island.
No.
They had no time to go off-course. He struggled against his restraints, but there was enough rope around him to hang a giant. Beside him, Thim was also trussed to the mast. Loth nudged him with his shoulder.
“Thim,” he whispered.
The gunner did not answer. A bruise was forming on his temple.