And there he is, Everlyn thinks. “At least he’s not useless,” she whispers.
That night, after the poth falls asleep, Jeryon wonders if he should have told her that his calculations had been wrong. There was no hope of rescue. What purpose would that have served, though? He might as well humor her. A hopeful crew’s a happy crew, even when trapped in a maelstrom.
He hears the poth whisper something in her sleep, and Jeryon realizes he can’t have his scream, not with her five feet away. He also realizes he doesn’t need it. Getting comfortable with her around: that’s not a productive attitude, he tells himself.
5
* * *
Everlyn is woken up by Jeryon scraping the cliff face with a sharp stone.
“What are you doing?” she says.
“Day seven,” he says. He touches up the first two of the slashes he’s made.
“I’ve been keeping track too,” she says. She picks up a spear and digs a long furrow in the sand. “One,” she says, then rubs it out with her foot. “Now what’s for breakfast?”
Her ankle feels stronger, so Jeryon shows her how to clean a crab with her sword instead of hacking it to pieces: flip it over, cleave it halfway through, lop off its limbs, and pry free its carapace. His father gave him the same lecture. Jeryon points out one for her to practice on while he gathers firewood and fills cups at the stream. When he returns the job is done “mostly competently,” and she says she’ll do the cooking today. She crushes some of his store of wild olives into a paste, but before she adds the crab to the cooking shell she puts in some herbs she gathered before he returned. A wonderful smell rises over the beach. The olives’ bitterness lingers, though.
After he tidies his camp and she changes his dressings, they set out for the island’s peak. He has a spear in each hand and his knife in his pocket, and she has her sword, but they take a long detour south around the blue crabs. They can clear them out later.
The slope surrounding the column of gray rock is gentler to the south, which makes hiking easier, but they aren’t making good time. The fifth time the poth stops to examine some plant, Jeryon snaps, “Can we eat that? Can it cure us? Will it kill a blue crab?”
“Not that I know of,” she says.
“Then let’s go.”
“Maybe it could.”
“Look,” he says, “when you see something interesting, I’ll add a mark to the next blaze so you can find it later.”
“Are we late?” she says. “Is there something up there waiting for us?”
He looks toward the dragon hollow. “I hope not.”
“No reason to hurry then. Besides,” she says, “my ankle is acting up again.”
“I’m sure it is,” he says. He slows to her excruciating pace, though, and gives her a spear to use as a walking stick.
At the tree line around the column, they spot no trails or ledges they can use to climb it. They circle to the east and observe that half of the island. Disappointingly, it is much the same as the rest. There don’t appear to be any other beaches. They see more streams, several ponds, and meadows. Nothing breaks the horizon.
“No dragons, at least,” she says.
When they find a water vine, they take a break to drink and eat. The poth sits on a slab of fallen rock. There isn’t a place for Jeryon to sit except the ground, and he’s wearied of that. Another slab has fallen behind and above her seat. There’s a third higher up the column. Jeryon slides into the tree line, looking up.
“What is it?” the poth asks.
He says, “You’re sitting on a step.”
She looks up too and sees the shelves of rock climbing around the peak. The stairway is cleverly made, blending into the stone and sturdy despite ages of weathering.
“Who do you think built it?” she says. “I’ve seen stairs like this in the mountains. My herb master said they were made by giants or maybe dwarves, and once there were great castles at the top to defend against hobgoblins.”
Jeryon says, “Given the rise between steps, I’d say everyday men, albeit taller.” He points at her ankle. “Are you up for this?”
“Says the sailor, king of flat water. I’m mostly mountain goat.” She springs up the first few steps, trying not to wince, and is amused that he can’t keep up. The stairs are wider than they look from below and slightly canted toward the column, so she feels comfortable setting a brutal pace.
In a few minutes she peeks over the top step to make sure something horrible isn’t lying in wait, then steps onto the plateau. She says, “See? Castles!”
The plateau is three acres of bare stone, cracked and depressed in places, punctuated by tall spikes of gray rock. The wind and rain have filled many with curious holes. “Where?” he huffs.
“Well, they aren’t here anymore. But these were once columns for the halls of the Giant Kings. Or the Dwarf Kings. Their shadow birds would roost in the nooks.”
“No. They’re spread too unevenly. Looks more like—”