Soon the ship was free of its mooring. It pulled away from the dock. Away from Hanas. Tes stood on the bow and watched the port city drift out of reach. Elrick stood on the other side of the narrow ship, his magic bright as he guided the Good Luck forward through the current, one hand held over the water.
In his other hand, he held a small stone. It wasn’t spelled, she could tell, not to amplify his magic or focus his mind, but he turned it over and over, its surface long worn smooth, and when he caught her looking, he said, “It’s always good, to have a bit of land on hand when you’re out at sea. Keeps you grounded.”
Tes thought about that as she turned her gaze back to the retreating coast. Night fell like a shroud, and soon only the lanterns and the lights in the houses traced the shape of the place she had lived all her life. She held up her hand, and the whole port city seemed to fit there, in her palm. Then, on the tip of her finger. Then, gone.
As Hanas disappeared, and the sea stretched out like a sheet in every direction, the world felt suddenly very, very large. Her heart began to race, and she sucked in, filling her lungs with air.
She was alone. And though she was frightened, for the first time in years, she was also free. That night, when the Good Luck found its current, Elrick gave her a blanket and a corner of the cabin floor, and she curled up with the little owl, and let the ship rock her to sleep.
* * *
The water below the boat had come alive.
The currents on the open sea had shone a low and steady blue, but since they’d passed the port, trading the ocean for the waterway that would carry them inland, the water had been changing colors. Now it glowed an eerie red, shot through with threads of crimson light.
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
Tes’s head jerked up. Elrick was leaning over the side now, too, staring down into the current. “You can see it?”
“Well, I’m not blind, so yes, I can see the light of the Isle. As can everyone, from Tanek on.”
Tes marveled at the idea of a magic others could see. Elrick was no longer watching the water. He stared at her, turning a question over in his cheek. This time he seemed about to give it voice, but at the last, he swallowed it, turned his gaze back to the river.
Since picking her up in Hanas two nights before, he hadn’t asked a single question. Not about who she’d been, or what she was running from. Not when she fixed each and every object in his crate. Not even when he came into the cabin once and caught her adjusting the threads around the little owl, her fingers hooking through what must have looked like empty air.
“Your business,” he’d said, turning on his heel, and walking out again.
Now they stood side by side, leaning over the rail as the color deepened in the water below.
“They say it is a source,” explained Elrick. “A place where magic runs so strong the naked eye can see it.” The naked eye, she thought as he nodded at the prow. “It will only get brighter as we near London.”
London.
She knew of the Arnesian capital, of course, but back in Hanas, it had felt like the stuff of stories. A city so big you couldn’t see its edges. The jewel of the empire, overflowing with magic. Rosana had once gifted their mother an illustration of the royal palace, which had supposedly been built on a bridge over the Isle, though that seemed a ridiculous place to put a castle.
Or so she thought, until she saw it.
Soon the river widened into a crimson thoroughfare, crowded with ships, and on either bank the buildings rose, so many and so close she couldn’t see the streets between, and Tes finally had to close her eyes against the shine and tangle of so many burning strings. Beyond her lids, a shadow, as she felt them pass beneath a bridge, the brief dark like a cool compress. And then, the light was there again, and Elrick telling her to look.
When she opened her eyes, she saw the soner rast, the city’s beating heart. The palace vaulted over the crimson river, its spires pricking the sky, the sun turning them to flame.
The docks were crowded with all manner of boats, from small skiffs to massive ships with more masts than the Good Luck had sails. Boats with spellwork carved into their hulls, and streaked like paint along their prows. Everywhere she looked, she saw the lines of magic. An almost blinding tapestry of threads.
Her spirits sank a little when she scanned the docks, and saw no market, no makeshift stalls.
“This city has a hundred markets,” said Elrick, at her side. “You will find them all.”
She threw a mooring rope down to a waiting dockhand.
Elrick laid the ramp.
“There you are,” he said, as if he’d simply given her a lift from one port to another. As if he hadn’t saved her, set her free. Her borrowed boots sounded as she crossed the deck, the coin pouch in one pocket and the owl tucked beneath her arm. She felt too light, as if she’d forgotten something instead of leaving it behind on purpose. She set off down the ramp, but Elrick caught her arm.
“Wait.”
If, in that moment, the sailor had invited her to stay aboard, she might have said yes. But he didn’t. Instead he took her hand, and placed the small dark stone inside it, the one he held on to as he guided the ship. He curled her fingers around the rock.
“To ground you,” he said, “whenever you’re at sea.”
She held fast to the little stone as she descended the ramp, and crossed the dock. Held fast as she reached the steps that led up to the street, and into the vast and vibrant city. Held fast as she plunged into the rippling current of light and motion, and knew that no matter what, she would find her way.
Part Nine
THE THREADS THAT BIND
I
WHITE LONDON
NOW
A knock sounded on the bedroom door.
Holland’s hand dropped from Kosika’s shoulder. He drifted past her to the window as she said, “Come in.”
She expected a servant, or perhaps Nasi, but instead it was Lark who entered, holding a tray.
“My queen,” he said. There was a quirk to his mouth when he said it, not mocking, but playful. A reminder that he had known her back when she was a street rat, and he a scrawny thief. Before she’d gained a black eye and a crown. Before he’d gained that scar at his throat. Before his shoulders had grown wide and his bearing tall and his voice had taken on that rich honey lilt.
His eyes scanned the room, passed right through Holland before lingering on the blood-soaked cloak she’d thrown off on her way in. “Good thing you’re not squeamish.”
Kosika shrugged. “Never have been.”
She didn’t realize how hungry she was until he set the tray down and she saw the food piled high on the plates. Thick-sliced meat, and roast carrots, a loaf of bread and a bowl of stone fruit and a pitcher of cider—easily enough for two.
In the beginning, she had been unnerved whenever anyone else stood in the presence of her saint, unnerved by their inability to see him as she could. But now, it gave her a kind of thrill.
“Do you wish they could see me?” asked Holland, and Kosika surprised herself by thinking no. She should want it, she knew, but she liked that he had chosen her. Only her.
Holland’s mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile.
And she forced her attention back to her friend.
“Eat with me.”
“A soldier, taking from the queen’s plate?” he said, aghast. But she rolled her eyes and split the food between them. She sank into a chair. He perched on a footstool.
“You’re missing quite a feast,” he said.
“And now you’re missing it, too. A servant could have brought this tray.”
“I’m glad for the excuse,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I hardly see you anymore.”
“You see me every day.”
“I see the queen.”
Are we not the same? she wanted to ask. But she knew they weren’t. She would never be a proper queen—a proper queen would be downstairs, smiling and nodding at nobles—but she could not be the reckless, feral girl she had once been.
She looked to the bloody cape. “I wish she were a cloak or crown,” she mused. “Something I could shed.”
“I don’t,” said Lark. “You are changing the world, Kosika.”