Ana exhaled, as though she had been holding a long breath. “And after all this, my friend?” she said gently. “What do you want after all this?”
Linn wasn’t sure she could answer that question herself. The ship pulled them west, toward Bregon. Beyond that, she knew, beyond the expanse of sea that made up the Jade Trail, was the Kemeiran Empire.
It suddenly hit her that she could very well be looking at the same sky, the same stars, as Ama-ka. And someday,someday,that same sky would no longer be unreachable, and she would watch the sun rise with Ama-ka’s hand in hers, the creak of their bamboo hammock stirring in the winds between the Kemeiran cypresses.
Perhaps that was why she was here.
“I want to go home,” she found herself saying, the words drifting from her lips as though the winds had stolen them from her breath.
Linn looked at the ocean, and for the first time in a long time, it opened before her, a stretch of possibility.
Night had fallen, surprisingly quickly and peacefully. They were far enough out now that there was nothing but ocean on all sides, reflecting the sky like a rippling mirror. Ramson had always loved how the stars were clearer out at sea.
After going through the ship’s mechanics, he and Daya had been relieved to find that the Black Barge had sustained no major damage. There were some burn marks along the hull, and pieces of debris had smashed into the deck, but, as Daya had proclaimed, slapping her hand on the bar counter, there wasn’t much eight crates of alcohol couldn’t fix.
Ramson had left her to count stock and supplies in the hold of the ship.
The Black Barge was a generously sized cutter, double-masted and installed with makeshift booths from its now-bygone days as a floating bar. Ramson swiped an aluminum tankard—the glassware was all broken—from the counter, selected a remaining bottle of whiskey, and leaned against the guardrail.
He drew a deep breath, and it hit him suddenly—the rocking boat, the star-strewn sky, and the whispering waters—it was something he hadn’t known since he’d been twelve years old and had turned his back on Bregon for what he’d thought was forever.
He’d been running all these years, and now he wasstillchasing after the ghosts of his past—for what? He took a swig from his tankard, the liquor searing down his throat. He couldn’t look to the future when his past was still a part of him, haunting him every day.
Once he ended this saga with Alaric Kerlan, he would be free to live as he wished. Go after whatever he wanted.
He wanted…he wanted—
“I’ve been looking for you.”
Ramson spun, the liquor in his cup splashing. Ana stood before him. He was struck by how she managed to look imperious even with her clothes disheveled and soot streaked across her face. She held one hand near her back, where a dark stain blotted her shirt. Daya had found bandages for her on board the ship, and she’d managed to wrap up her wound. Gingerly, she leaned herself against the railing next to him.
It was the first time he’d gotten a close look at her since the night they’d parted ways in Novo Mynsk. The silver of the moon softened the new sharpness to her features, coating the fall of her hair, the curve of her lashes.
Ramson knew the look in her eyes. He knew it so well, in the form of a pale-skinned boy with crow-black hair.
It was guilt. Earlier, she’d slumped against the guardrail as they sailed away, looking blankly at the burning city until the sea swallowed it.
He leaned toward her, aware of every subtle shift of her muscles. “Well, I’m here.”
They were silent for a few moments, the air between them heavy with words unspoken.
At last, Ana said quietly, “Shamaïra warned me about this, in a way.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “My heart tells me I should be back there, fighting with my people—yet my mind tells me this is where I must be.”
Ramson wanted to hold her and tell her that everything was going to be fine. That might have been kinder, but it would also be a lie—and he had told too many of those in his lifetime. Instead, he raked a hand through his hair and broke the news to her. “They took her. The Whitecloaks—they took Shamaïra. I went to her dacha to find you, but you weren’t there.”
Her knuckles turned white against the railing. “Those bastards.”
“I overheard them talking,” he continued. “Morganya wants Shamaïra—which is a good thing. It means she’ll keep her alive.”
Ana shut her eyes. Slowly, she nodded. “We’re going to get her out of there. As soon as I’m in Bregon, I’ll write to Yuri. He loves Shamaïra as much as I.” She hesitated, and then her expression crumbled. “It’s all my fault, Ramson. Shamaïra saved me the night of the Inquisition in Novo Mynsk. The Whitecloaks must have tracked me to her house, and…” Her voice broke into a whisper. “If something happens to her…I don’t know if I could ever forgive myself.”
Standing by her side against the railing, Ramson might have understood a little of how she felt: the guilt of putting the ones you loved in harm’s way, and being powerless to do anything about it. “Shamaïra seemed…prepared,” he said slowly, the words tasting callous on his tongue. “I found a painting in her dacha—a painting of the ocean. It led me back to you.”
“She seemed prepared?” Ana repeated. She looked pensive, that crease appearing between her eyebrows as it did whenever she was deep in thought. “Shamaïra told me something. She said that for my path, she saw an ocean.”
“Very precise of her.” His tone was light, the joke quiet.
“I’m starting to think…” Ana hesitated. “I’m starting to think there’s a reason behind it. The weapon Tetsyev mentioned—the one he said could replicate Affinities…I think he was telling the truth. Linn told me shesawa prisoner with the Imperial Inquisition—a man withtwoAffinities.” She paused. “But why would the weapon be in Bregon?”
