‘But I can bind you,’ the queen says.
Mother Lin gasps. ‘Your Majesty—’
‘We have no choice,’ Mother Joca insists, covering Malostra’s body in her cloak. ‘She killed Malostra. Think what could have happened to the queen and the princess.’
I can sense the space growing smaller around me until I can feel the Tree against my back.
I arc my arms wide, beginning to cast a protective circle. ‘You must listen to me. She means to use the souls of the dead as a source of power!’
‘Treason,’ Mother Joca yells. ‘You leave us no choice.’
‘Do it now!’ the queen commands.
The Temple Mothers lock arms and begin to chant. ‘We bind you from harm. We bind you from power unearned. Everything that lives must die. To the Tree of Life we all return.’
The stones begin to shake under my feet and break apart, flinging me backwards. Great snake-like creatures shoot out of the ground, spraying dirt everywhere. Vines with teeth for thorns bite at my flesh. The smell of turned earth fills the chamber. The roots strike at my body, coiling around me with their brutal touch. I try to fight them off, to finish my protective circle, but they break through. They hold me fast and keep my body rigid. My skin burns under the touch of the roots. My bones crack as I’m pulled from a great height. I’m dragged into the ground and under it, watching the earth close up above me until there is nothing but darkness.
chapter forty-six
ris
The ship hasn’t flooded,and we’re all still here, a little worse for wear. Since the encounter with the kraken and the enemy ship, Finlyr and I have been slowly cataloguing and repairing the damage. I’m clearing the last of the debris when I feel cold steel against my skin. I look up to see my dagger, out of its sheath and aimed squarely at my heart.
‘Enough cleaning, time for swordplay.’
Finlyr passes me a sword, and I unsheathe it. ‘How gallant of you to offer me the sword this time.’
‘I thought you might want the advantage,’ he says with a smirk.
‘I don’t need the advantage,’ I retort, parrying his attack.
‘At least you know which end is which. You’ve come on leaps.’
He turns about. It seems almost unfair that he’s defending from a sword with a dagger, but I’m sure he likes the challenge. Finlyr’s giving good this time. I worried he was being soft on me, trying to build my confidence. I hate that. He moves like water, anticipating my movements before I’ve even started making them. It’s like he’s in my head. I must have some tell, some giveaway in my expression. He’s not as fast as Isagani, but compared to me, he is like the air. He leads me in a dance around the repaired mast and catches me on the other side, pinning me with his arm and pointing the dagger just above the loose lacing of my shirt and below the moon talisman.
Finlyr follows my gaze and then meets my eyes. ‘I’ve always wondered why the Paranishian symbol of union is the moon. She’s inconstant, ever-shifting.’
I’d rather him kiss my steel than pin blame on a witness to my husband’s folly. It’s not his fault. There are no more secrets between us, and I feel a lightness now.
We’re breathing hard, cheeks flushed. My pommel catches his hand, and he drops the dagger, bringing his fingers up to his mouth.
‘Are you bleeding?’ I ask.
‘No, thankfully.’
He bends to grab the dagger, but I kick it with the toe of my boot. It spins across the deck and under a crate.
‘Ris!’ he says, frustrated.
I wouldn’t rile him up if it weren’t so entertaining.
‘Fine.’ He stands, seeing my impish look. ‘Then I will simply disarm you.’
‘I’d like to see you try.’
Then he’s charging at me. He tackles me, a little cautiously, for the blade in my hand. I push Finlyr hard in the chest. He looks taken aback, his hands flying to the place on his skin where his shirt hangs loose, as if my touch has shocked him. He rounds on me, and I stagger back. Finlyr pushes me roughly against the wall. The wood buckles beneath the force of it. I drop the sword, and it clatters to the deck. His hands are still on my shoulders, and we stare at each other, his eyes moving to the rise and fall of my chest. The sword and the fight are forgotten. I watch a bead of sweat roll down his neck and become trapped in his clavicle. It holds there for a moment before travelling down his chest. There’s a mark I’d never noticed before, a line tattoo of a cresting wave and a sword. Our eyes meet again, and the moment pulls taut like a rope against a sail. His look is soopen and vulnerable, as if he’s showing me all of him. His expression teeters on the knife-edge of my decision.
‘Come here.’ These words undo him.
