Page 31 of The Isles of the Gods
“I owe you an apology too,” I say. “I mean it. I had no idea I was robbing you of your chance to see your father, but I’m truly sorry I did.”
She glances away again, lips pressing together in a thin line, making me wonder if I’ve made a mistake in raising the subject of her father again. “Captain took the job,” she says eventually, and I hate the tension that takes over her body with those words.
“On a ship that’s a part of your family’s fleet. I’m grateful. What we’re doing right now, it will make a difference to a lot of people.”
“Pretty sure it would have made even more difference if you were on time, a year ago,” she points out. But the edge to her voice has faded. A little. I could still cut myself on it.
“Fair,” I concede. “And I know it’s a huge pain in the ass, having to haul me out to the middle of nowhere.”
“Don’t think taking responsibility will get you off the hook,” she warns me.
I hold up my hands to protest my innocence. “What about a peace offering?”
She raises a brow, but it’s not a no. I can work with that.
“Sailors like maps and charts, don’t they? Want to see something you’ve never seen before?”
Her gaze, which had drifted out to the water, snaps back to me.
“You didn’t give it to Rensa?”
“I gave her the official, royal charts. I’ve got something better.” I open my satchel, reaching for the journal. It’s inside a waxed cotton pouch—waterproof—for one extra level of protection.
“What is it?” She leans forward as I pull it free, unable to hide her anticipation, and I don’t blame her. It’s forbidden in every country to show the Isles of the Gods on any map. Clearly the lure of it is tantalizing enough that she’s willing to put up with me for a few more minutes, against her better judgment.
“It’s a map, and it’s more than a map.” I flip it open and riffle through the pages slowly. Generations of my family have written in this battered little book—most recently my father, and my grandmother before him, and this is just the latest in a long line of journals. The earliest, most faded pages of the first volume hold the thoughts of King Anselm himself, the night before he died.
My ancestors’ handwriting crowds the dog-eared pages, interspersed with sketches, illustrations, and in the earlier days, marks where someone worked on the journal over a meal, I suspect.
It’s the most valuable thing my family owns, and for all I dragged my feet on this voyage—at the time, the freedom of finishing school and the endless nights of celebration seemed far more fun—now that I’m out here at sea, I like the idea ofadding my own thoughts. Of someone reading aboutthisvoyage, a century from now.
But once I’ve added my entry, made my sacrifice, I’ll have fulfilled my entire purpose in life. All I’m needed for is this pilgrimage, unless they want me to do it again in another quarter century.
And people wonder why I like parties so much.
“Here are the Isles,” I say, pushing that thought aside and flipping to an early page, which shows the map of the continent and the Crescent Sea we both know so well, but with one addition you don’t find on a usual map.
I tap the Trallian city of Loforta, and trace a line straight down until I reach a circle of eight tiny islands, a long, long way from anywhere. They’re joined by a faintly drawn line, and Selly leans in closer to take a look, her braid swinging over her shoulder, which presses in against mine for a moment—then she notices our close proximity and pulls back. Her eyes don’t leave the little hand-drawn map, though.
“What’s the circle the little islands are sitting on?”
“The Mother’s Crown, it’s called. A reef just beneath the surface, joining each of the Isles to its neighbors. Inside, it’s flat as a mirror—the Still Waters, the journal calls it.”
“That’ll be something to see,” she admits.
“Won’t it? Here, the largest of the islands is the Isle of the Mother, and the other seven are each devoted to one of her children. We’ll only visit Barrica’s. It’s here, next to the Mother’s.”
“I always say I’ve sailed every place that’s on a map,” she murmurs, still gazing at the sketch like it’s gold-plated. “Now it’ll really be true.”
“Is that truly why sailors don’t go there?” I ask. “It’s not on the charts? I’ve wondered—I mean, who would know if youdid?”
“Well,we’dknow. First, most sailors are religious, so they won’t go somewhere forbidden by the gods. And second, there are stories about what happens if you go there, don’t you know?”
“No, what do they say?”
She grins. “They say if you go there, you get to find out what happens when you anger a god.”
I raise my brows. “Lucky I’m sailing on the queen’s orders, and I’m particularly charming.”
