Chapter 29
After three days, the storm abated. Gunner had the Bitter Cob drop anchor in the lee of some little island while he waited for the skies to clear so they could find their bearings. The pirates were good enough to feed the slaves before they slept. Gunner was fastidious in keeping his goods performing at their highest potential.
Gavin slept like a stone, woke, and slept again. He dreamed again, and knew he was dreaming. He was a child, and everyone was gone. Mother and father were at the Chromeria: father for some ceremonies, and mother to be near him. Gavin got to go with them because he was older. Dazen and Sevastian had to stay home with the servants and house slaves. Dazen woke alone in his bed, and thought of calling for his nurse. He was eleven years old, almost. Too old to be afraid of the dark. He wasn’t sure what he’d heard, but he lay in bed, listening, almost too scared to breathe.
He was eleven. Too old to be such a scaredy.
Throwing off the covers, he reached from his bed to where his child-sized sword had fallen, trying to pick it up without stepping out of bed. It was too far away. He took his blanket and threw it over the sword, holding on to one edge. He pulled it toward himself, and it dragged the sword a little. In three more tries, he had it.
Swallowing, he drew the sword out of the scabbard. He heard glass break. It sounded like it came from outside, but he knew that was a trick of how the Guile home was laid out. The doors were huge, thick. Breaking glass could only mean that one of the other windows had been smashed down the hall. Sevastian’s room!
Dazen forgot his fear and jumped out of bed.
He threw his door open and ran. The hallway stretched longer and longer. He reached a full sprint, but the walls deformed. He was getting shorter and shorter, fading, fading.
When he reached Sevastian’s door, his hand passed through the latch. He couldn’t touch anything. Couldn’t change anything. His hand passed through the wood, too.
He threw himself at the door—through the door.
The blue wight snarled, standing over Sevastian’s bed, all blue skin and red blood. It jumped up to the window and disappeared into the night. Dazen only saw his little brother’s bloodied, broken body. He screamed. The smell of blood washed over him as he picked up Sevastian.
He was dead. The little boy had been pierced, a sword stroke or a spear thrust right in the middle of his chest. Little Dazen, wailing inconsolably, had no space for any other thought, but the dreamer saw more than he remembered. That sword or spear thrust had hit Sevastian high in the chest and come out the middle of his back. Sevastian had stood to confront the intruder, and been slain where he stood. A single, sure stroke. Good-hearted little Sevastian hadn’t even had time to dodge or fight, hadn’t believed someone would come to murder him in the night.
His own hands smearing blood on Sevastian’s perfect, angelic face, Dazen wailed. Lying there, eyes closed, Sevastian could have been sleeping. Dazen shook him.
“Wake up! Wake up!”
Gavin woke to Orholam shaking him.
It took Gavin long moments for rocking of the ship and the hardness of the wood under his back to sink in. One nightmare to another.
“These are the dreams you send me, Orholam?” he demanded. “Go to hell!”