I haul him back up with a grunt, as something full expands in my chest. It isn’t the softness of empathy or the tenderness of worry. It’s heated and powerful, like a crest of fire. I don’t examine it more than that. Just use its power to drag Niko up the slippery rock edge toward where his ribbons disappeared.
“Useless—” A powerful tug. “—arrogant—” And another. “—His Majesty of Putrefaction and Snobbery—” One final jerk sends me sprawling backward on my ass. Niko slips from my numb fingers, and I wince as his head cracks against the stone.
“Leave it to you to be a royal pain in the ass even when you’re unconscious,” I bite out, gingerly climbing back to my feet. My entire body aches and my throat is dry, but I momentarily forget all of it, including my now throbbing tailbone, as I stare out at the expanse of the cave.
The cave appeared small from the outside, the entrance hardly tall enough for a grown man to stand up straight. Even the rock spire itself hadn’t seemed large enough to encompass the pure breadth of the cavern I’m now standing in, at least double in size of the Lunaedon throne room. The ceiling towers so high above me, the moss looks like individual stars sparkling in a night sky. The walls are a shining obsidian, curving down to a wide ledge that circles around the entirety of the rock womb.
The ledge dips down into a large basin which must fill with water at high tide, as its floor is carpeted in silt and driftwood. And standing proudly in the middle of it all rises the most peculiar thing:
A ship.
The most majestic ship I’ve ever seen, its beauty far exceeding any of those I’d glimpsed in the city’s harbor. Though there is no way the ship could have sailed into the cave, the shining black hull is in perfect condition, as if it was polished this morning and is ready to set sail over the dry rock. A gangplank stretches from one of the upper decks, and proud masts spear up toward the sparkling ceiling, the dark wood gleaming in the odd blue light. Though there is no detectable wind, black sails billow softly in the quiet of the cave.
Is this another trick of the island?
I blink wildly, as if the movement will clear the ship and any lingering hallucinations from my vision. But no matter how I squint, the ship remains. Empty, still.
The longer I stare, the more bereft I feel. Like the empty façade of the vessel echoes in my own heart. Something that beautiful should not be left to rot underground. Not when it was built for freedom.
I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at it when Niko begins to seize again, startling me from my stupor. My heart leaps into my throat as I spin, kneeling quickly beside him. His body jerks, his muscles tightening and loosening in turn. His teeth clack together, the sound painful and sharp. His ribbons have pooled beside his head, and though I feel their attention on me, they make no move to prevent me from reaching out to tentatively place my palm against his chest.
I expect him to be cold—maybe because of his magic or the smell of winter that follows him—but warmth radiates throughhis clothes. That has to be a good sign, right? Or maybe it means he has a fever?
His heart thrums beneath the thick waterlogged fabric of his vest, its beat frenetic and rushed. I assess him as quickly as I can, searching for any sign of injuries. There’s a rapidly blooming bump where his head collided with the rock, but I find nothing else. No blood, no rips in the fabric of his clothes beyond the scrapes from dragging him in here.
The pile of ribbons jerks in time with his spasms, and it occurs to me that whatever is ailing him, affects them as well. Which means whatever is wrong with him is probably something magical. Something I don’t understand.
Frustration spikes through me, even as the seizure ceases. I’ve never been a patient person—always preferring todosomething, anything, rather than waiting in stasis. Stasis has always felt like death. Like the moment I stop moving, I’ll become frozen in place forever.
“I don’t suppose you have any ideas?” I ask the ribbons, not truly expecting them to answer. But for some reason, speaking to them makes me feel less alone, even in the foreign light of this cave, in a world that isn’t mine. Which is absolutely absurd. Death should be the loneliest thing in the world, but something about the way Niko’s responds to me is oddly soothing.
It wiggles slightly in response to my question, or perhaps simply to the sound of my voice.
“Maybe a fire?” I suggest mildly, looking around the cave. It’s warmer here than it was at the cave mouth, but there’s still a distinct chill to the air. The death ribbons wiggle a little more, which I take as their agreement.
I don’t relish the idea of leaving Niko alone, but the only sign of life appears to be us and the moths. I decide to treat Niko’s condition like I would any other seizure, magical or not. Which means he needs rest, warmth and fluids.
Shrugging my cloak off, I drape it over his body. The fabric is mostly soaked through, and it’s far too short, leaving his feet to stick out the bottom, but it’ll have to do for now. Then I set about finding kindling for a fire.
My father was the one to teach me survival skills, and I’d been eager to learn as the lessons were always disguised as fun. Camping beneath the stars, fishing at dawn. Neither of us had known I would later be forced to use those skills to actually survive—to stay off the grid as I shed one identity and donned another. Forever running from a world that wanted to drain me of everything I am.
Shoving the thoughts aside, I carefully climb down the rolling edges of the basin. In the shadow of the ship, the feeling of grief balloons beneath my ribs once more. There is no name painted on the side, but I feel an inexplicable kinship with the ghostship nonetheless. Trapped in a place it was never meant for.
I explore the entire bottom of the cave and find nothing to burn. Beyond that, I have no source of a spark. For a moment, I consider venturing up the plank to the ship’s upper deck, but something keeps me from it. Like to disturb it would be to awaken something I’m not sure I want to face.
I scale the sloped rock once more, almost tumbling right back down it when I breach the edge and come face to face with a pair of bottomless obsidian eyes.
His Majesty is awake.
The king is still sprawled out on the rock, his long legs stretched at the odd angles the spasms left them, but his head is turned to where I cling to the ledge. His lashes flutter wildly as he tries and fails to focus on my face.
My heartbeat ratcheting higher in my chest, I crawl up over the edge. Slowly, I rise to my feet, warily holding Niko’s gaze.
I’ve seen what the king can do when he’s angry—who knows what he's capable of when he’s vulnerable and in pain.
His gaze sharpens, drinking in my face with an intensity I don’t understand. I brace myself against it, like if I don’t, it’ll claw beneath my skin and hook there irrevocably.
But Niko only says, “Water.”
