Page 107 of The Isles of the Gods
The sun slipped behind the mountains, and we were left to wonder if they’d managed to secure a boat of their own, if they’d managed to catch sight of our course before the light faded. Now we have the answer.
We’ve made it through the night, at least. We’ve each snatched an hour or two of sleep, and Keegan’s in our one bunk right now, in the cabin below us.
TheEmmais a neat little fishing boat that does everything I could ask of her. She still smells strongly of her last catch, but she has a sturdy hull and sails we can handle. She was more than a bargain, because she didn’t have the modern touches of the newer, bigger boats in the harbor. The old man selling her took a shine to me—and nobody else was in the market.
We’ve got her old sails trimmed in fairly tight, the wind coming from our port side, and we’re clipping along at a good pace. The breeze carries the scent of salt, and the wavesshush-shushbeneath us as we cut a line through them. With my hair whipping around my face, I’ve set my course and I’m where I belong. I can almost feel my father by my side, almost see Rensa or Kyri coming up the companionway to take a turn at the wheel.
It feels like a lifetime ago that I was raging at Leander for stranding me with Rensa, for keeping me away from Da. In reality it’s been just days.
I’ve mostly stopped myself from thinking about the crewnow.
When I let their faces swim up from where I’ve packed them away, or when I look out at the deck of theEmmaand imagine Jonlon casting me a wry look as he retrims my sail, or Kyri kneeling by the mast to charm the spirits, the ache of loneliness flows through me like physical pain.
I’d give anything to have even one of them aboard with me, to have someone to help carry the responsibility of getting Leander to the Isles. But I’m alone, and for now I need the loss of my crew to feel a long time ago, a long way away.
I don’t have what it would take to face up to the reality that they’re gone, not yet. I need to save everything I have forwhat I’m doing here. Because what I’m doing here is nearly impossible.
I think of my father, too, sometimes. Up north, with no idea theLizabettais gone, his crew are dead. No idea I’m here, in the middle of the Crescent Sea in a fishing boat, trying to stop a war.
If I fail, he and all his fleet will be conscripted to fight, to fill their holds with soldiers instead of bales of wool, sacks of grain.
If I fail, he’ll never know what happened to me. Or that Itried.
Keegan cautiously held the wheel last night as Leander and I hunched over the chart together, comparing it to the sketch in his journal.
“The Isles are below Loforta,” he said, tracing a line down the journal’s page with his finger. “And straight across from Brend’s Gate, judging by this.”
I know Brend’s Gate well—I would have sailed right by it if I’d been aboard theFreya,on my way to join my father.
“And that’s where it was on the chart you gave to Rensa?” I pressed. “Directlybelow Loforta?Exactlyeven with Brend’s Gate? There’s a world of difference between a sketch in a journal and an exact marking on a chart.”
“I didn’t look that closely,” he admitted helplessly. “I wasn’t planning on navigating us there myself. I remember it being the same. I think.”
Everything will hang on that memory being true. The Isles are tiny specks in a huge ocean, and I’ve been helming an unfamiliar boat through the night, on very little sleep. I knowLeander’s been praying, but Barrica is at the very depth of her weakness now, waiting on an overdue sacrifice. I have to trust his bond with her will mean enough.
There’ll be more than a little luck involved in this, but all I can do is get us close enough that I can climb the mast with a telescope and look for hope on the horizon.
We’ll sail all today, and through the night again. And when dawn comes tomorrow, we’ll know whether we’ve done it ornot.
Leander is up on deck with me, moving around whenever I need the sails trimmed, while I stand at the wheel. There’s nothing we can do but sail the boat, and when I’m able to set my worries aside, I’m finding I like working her together.
He returns from catching a line that was trailing in the water and slips inside the blanket I have around my shoulders, huddling against me with a grin.
I push in closer, shamelessly stealing his warmth, and he wraps an arm around me, presses a cheek to mine. His skin is rough with stubble, and he smells like salt and canvas.
“The sky’s beautiful,” he says, nodding to the pink and orange painting the horizon ahead of us.
“Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning,” I tell him.
“Come again?”
“You don’t know that one? ‘Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.’ ”
He squints sidelong at me. “What’s it warning us about?”
“A storm.” When I look up, he follows my gaze—the clouds are ragged up high, ripped to pieces by the wind, and the pink and orange ahead of us mellow to a sickly gold up above. When I glance behind us, the sky is an ugly green. Our hastily hungspirit flags flutter and snap in the wind as I study the heavy clouds suspended over Mellacea, trying to guess whether that storm will reach us—though the wind is blowing from the east, that doesn’t mean it will be chased away. Often, higher up, these things circle around.
And that’s when I see something on the horizon, just for a moment. A shape that doesn’t belong with the waves.
