I paused, my breath coming heavy. “I need a moment,” I said. My magic was exhausted, but I reached through the threads, letting my awareness ripple out in all directions.
Nothingness around us—not a soul. We hadn’t climbed far. If anything, we were deeper than where we had started at the gates. I could sense the sea nearby, the salty brine scent stinging my nostrils.
I followed the threads up, up, up. Up to a cluster of auras far above us… to one in particular, far above them.
“He’s far,” I said.
“How far?”
My brow furrowed. The threads shivered and trembled.
I ran over them again, following them to the castle.
No, this wasn’t right. I had to have missed something.
“There’s no one for a long time,” I said.
But that didn’t make sense. Aaves had plenty of bodies to throw at us. And yet, the halls were empty.
I leaned against the wall. My palm touched wet stone.
The realization came too late.
There were many things that were very unique about Alka. The rocky terrain, its confusing tunneled construction, the many interconnected formations that made up its body.
But perhaps the most dangerous was the tide.
It was an unusually low tide the night of a full moon, revealing paths that were usually underwater.
But the tides of Alka were vicious and swift and sudden, more so than anywhere else in Glaea or, perhaps, the world.
My vision had specified the crescent moon. I had taken us during the full. And Aaves had just driven us into the deepest tunnels of Alka. The ones that really belonged to the sea.
A sea that was ready now to take them back.
I whirled to Atrius. “We need to go back—” I said.
But the sudden wall of water swallowed my words.
14
I’m six years old, and the water hurts so much as it fills my lungs. My mouth keeps opening and opening, like if I can get my jaw open wide enough I’ll find air, but there’s no air, there’s just sour salt water and it just keeps filling me and filling me and filling me, and I know it will kill me.
I am six years old and I’m going to die.
The man’s hands are firm at my throat, tangled in the back of my hair. I thrash against it but I can’t fight his grip. His fingers are so tight around my neck, they hurt almost as much as the salt in my lungs.
Almost.
I’m six years old and I’m going to die.
Water had filled my lungs by the time I was aware enough to realize what had happened. It poured into the tunnels with such force that it struck us like a giant open palm. My body hurt—something broke. I couldn’t orient myself. We were moving fast, so fast I struggled to grab hold of the threads around me. The moment my consciousness returned, I clawed at the stone wall, breaking fingernails but failing to—
My body lurched as someone grabbed me—Atrius. I knew it was him immediately. But the water was so strong, and he was being swept away in it too. He held me for a moment and then I was pulled away from him again. My body crashed against what must have been Erekkus, who was forcing himself against the rock wall, trying to slow himself against the current.
Gods, what were we going to do? I reached for the threads, for something to root myself in. We were being swept through the tunnels, swept out to—
Atrius grabbed at me again, and once again he failed. This time, though, he opened up a gash in my forearm. I barely noticed the pain, but I wanted to snap at him for the distraction.
But then a moment later, a strange sensation bubbled up inside me, slow, warm, burning. My muscles tensed, tightening and moving without my permission.
What the hell was—
My body flew across the hall, fighting against the tide, and suddenly my head was above the water and a body was pressed to mine with a firm arm wrapped around my waist—
—And Atrius’s very, very unhappy face was a few inches away from mine. One arm held onto me, and the other braced against a rocky enclave. Flecks of water showered against our faces, our heads barely above the rush. The tide was now ebbing and flowing, coming in bursts rather than constant force. I glanced behind me to see the flailing limbs of Atrius’s warriors fighting to make it through the tide. Reverberations of their fear, high and sharp, plucked through the threads.
Even vampires feared death. And I knew that a death by drowning was among the worst.
“You said you’d be useful, Arachessen,” Atrius spat, raising his voice over the roar of the water. “I saved your life. Now you save theirs.”
His eyes were fierce and steadfast, like this demand was completely reasonable. And yet, perhaps I sensed a glimmer of fear from him now—only now, when his people were in danger.
“How do you expect me to do that?” I asked, the rush swallowing my voice.
He leaned close, the water from his lips brushing the crest of my ear.
“You’re the witch,” he said. “Don’t your kind have their ways?”
Weaver damn him. I had no ways for this. Some of my Sisters were talented with water magic, but that was never my skill, and even then, I doubted any acolyte of Acaeja would have water magic powerful enough to stop this—maybe a follower of Zarux, the God of the Sea, but that certainly wasn’t my domain.
I looked around helplessly, reaching out to our surroundings. Stone. Water. Bodies. And fear—so much fear, growing more intense by the moment.
Terrible guilt, the weight of my responsibility in this mistake, swelled in my throat, burning. So many of these people were going to die.
Perhaps I should let them.
It was what a good saboteur would do. Let the conqueror’s army whittle away. I had every excuse for not being able to help. How could I help, anyway? What could I do?
I’m six years old and the salt water hurts and I’m going to die.
I shook away the past, my own thread tangling with theirs.
I couldn’t say why I made the decision, only that I was acting before it even consciously snapped into place. I reached above me, pressing my palm to the rough stone of the ceiling.
It was hard to focus on my magic with the water rushing around us. The bursts came harder now, sending Atrius and I under the water for seconds at a time, threatening to rip me from his grasp. But he held me tight, keeping my body pressed to his. I was grateful for that, an anchor, as I worked to find a connection strong enough to latch onto.
Against the tide, I kept my palm to the stone.
Stone was alive, in its way. Threads of life ran through it. It was stable and secure. Everything here was moving and changing. Not the stone. I could use that. There was space beyond this—more tunnels. We just needed to break through.
I’d never done something like this before. Weaver knew whether I was even capable of it. But it was my only idea. My only wild, stupid, ridiculous idea.
I drew a thread from myself to the stone, tightened it until it trembled between our souls. Another thread. Another. Three anchors, forcing my magic through it, and then half a dozen, and then more that I didn’t bother to count.
How many would be enough?