‘I’m just trying to keep you all safe. Look, I’ve taken a... sojourn... from sailing. I’m getting my sea legs back under me, as are all of you.’
There’s an agonising silence. We’re drifting past the Winter Isle, the Temple of Aistra just visible through the mists. Weak sunlight pierces through the fog, and the stonework reaches out to us, tall and imposing like a creature in the shadows waiting to strike. The towers its claws, the stained-glass windows its teeth.
Sinigang hisses, and Biba clutches him tightly to her. Even I shiver in the rapidly cooling air, the unsettling quiet.
‘This is the place, isn’t it?’ Biba asks, staring at Ris.
Her mother nods, grim-faced. ‘This is where they train them.’
Biba moves across the deck, barely noticing as Sinigang wriggles in her arms. She is entranced by some silent song.
Something else emerges from the mist. Bleached woven reed sails. Gold trim on the masts. Seamaiden figurehead on the prow. An official Seaguardian patrol.
‘What should we do?’ Isagani asks, as rocks form in the pit of my stomach.
‘Should I bite them?’ Sinigang asks, swishing his tail. ‘It’s venomous if I sink my teeth in far enough.’
‘We know,’ Ris says, giving the otter-cat a sour look.
He’s got some of his fiendish energy back. I can’t help but wonder if our proximity to the Winter Isle has something to do with that.
I recoil. ‘That won’t be necessary. We don’t know that they’ve been alerted to a stolen ship yet. As far as they know we are a legitimate quest vessel. But Biba get below, just to be safe.’
Biba nods and makes her way to the living quarters. We all try to act natural as the Seaguardians approach slowly. The dazzling white of those pristine uniforms makes me sick. They motion for us to steer into the wind and throw lines across to tether our crafts together. Gangway planks slap down as they board, a couple of lackeys setting it down and coming to land on our deck.
I watch the person I deduce must be their captain. They eye the royal sigil onSaltswept’s prow. ‘What’s all this then?’
‘We are on a quest for Her Royal Highness,’ I say, bowing with a flourish. ‘Blessed be.’
‘You’ll have some proof of that then, won’t you?’ the captain smirks, picking at their nail beds with a knife.
We all look at one another. Ris has a pallid sheen on her face that tells me this isn’t her first run-in with them.
She composes herself and steps forward. ‘Certainly,’ Ris says, lowering her voice: a deep, honeyed resonance, commanding and broaching no argument.
Ris proffers a hand casually at me, without looking my way. I scrabble in my shirt for the map and hand it to her; she unfolds the yellowed paper with attentive care. The moment stretches out between both crews, and I dare not breathe. Ris hands it carefully to one of the lackeys who unfolds it and holds it up to the sunlight. It takes a moment for the mist and clouds to clear enough for the light to penetrate the paper. Then we can all see it glowing like a fire ember: the royal seal. A sun with whirling beams, shining blindingly in the corner of the map. I avert my eyes and notice the outline of the seal hitting the deck. I try to swallow the gasp slipping from between my lips. A faint rattle emanates from the lodgings below, and I hold my breath. Be quiet, Biba.
The captain nods begrudgingly. ‘Another skeleton crew,’ they signal to their crew. ‘Disembark.’
The flunkeys begin their retreat, tossing the map back at Ris. ‘Fair seas,’ one of them says, his tone spitting a curse.
Once they are safely out of earshot, we all turn to Ris.
‘How did you know it would do that?’ Isagani asks, handling the map like it might explode.
‘Morna showed me,’ Ris says, tentatively.
‘Why did they call us a skeleton crew?’ Isagani asks.
‘It’s because they don’t expect us to come back,’ Ris responds sourly, a grim line set across her face.
The words are barely out of her mouth before the ship judders and groans, a beast awakening from a slumber. A hammering comes from the doors to the living quarters. It’s slow and rhythmic, almost drumming.
‘What in Paranish is that?’ I ask.
We look around, confirming the Seaguardian ship is still leaving us, its silhouette in the distance.
Sinigang’s fur stands on end, hackles rising. ‘I don’t like this,’ he says, growling.
