Sam held nothing back and concluded, as the plates were cleared and cakes and coffee put out, “By our calculations, we have sixteen remaining days to prepare for the second Black Tide and the arrival of the Mereish Fleet.If I might offer a suggestion, Helena—stay here.Offer yourself to the Admiralty before you are pressed into service.Secure a written contract.You will receive better compensation and share of the prizes than if they are forced to press you.I will send you with a letter for my uncle.”
“I see… and I appreciate that.”
“There is not enough time to recall the North Fleet, or even the entirety of the South,” Ben put in over the delicate layered cake on his plate and a mug of steaming, spiked cardamom coffee.“Once these buffoons get their wigs on straight, there will be an uproar.How did they take word of your pursuit in the channel?”
“Evasively,” Fisher replied.She added cream to her own coffee and stirred.“I suppose I could flee before we are conscripted, but that seems rather cowardly, and I do appreciate prize money.”
“There will only be prize money if we survive,” Charles, who had taken the meal as an opportunity to don his new rose-and-cream ensemble, said from next to me.He’d been quiet so far, and I noted a fresh weariness in his eyes.I’d been so focused on Sam in recent days, I had thought little of my friend and how the pressure of recent events might affect him, along with the ever-increasing activity of his ghisting.“I’ve half a mind to head for the South Isles and impose myself on Demery again.”
“That is…” Sam had one hand on the table, small fork forgotten between his fingers.“That is not unwise.I begrudge no one who wants to evade this fight.I will also be offering my crew the choice to stay or go their own way.”
He looked at Olsa and Illya and added, with a touch of regret, “There is no need to involve yourselves in our conflicts.”
“We know,” Illya said, scraping the last smears of chocolate from his plate.
“We will remain on board but not fight,” Olsa said.She glanced at Skarrow and Keo and stopped there, but I caught her meaning— she would remain to see Ben and Sam through the healing ritual.“We are Usti, and the involvement in the battle would not reflect well, given the current rumors.”
Sam nodded and the conversation went on, but my mind lingered on the Uknaras.For the first time, I had time to truly contemplate what Faucher’s accusations and their position in this conflict meantfor the Usti couple.I rarely thought of them purely in terms of their heritage—they were simply friends, allies with whom we had faced great challenges, and who had proven their loyalty many times.
Despite that loyalty, a thread of unease worked its way up my spine.Yes, Olsa staying aboard was practical; she wished to be involved in Sam’s and Ben’s healing, and her advice would be invaluable.But what would she, an Usti, do with all she had learned?Was it not the Usti’s hunger for Mereish knowledge, their hunt for Monna, that had initiated recent events?
Across the table, I recognized the flicker of premonition in Olsa’s Sooth eyes.Her bare hand rested on the tabletop and I—Tane—felt a thrum through our ghisten connection.It was wordless, quizzical, and reassuring.
I offered a small tug of a smile.I was being foolish.I trusted Olsa nearly as much as I trusted my own mother.
Within me, Tane shifted.
But can we trust Enisca?
FORTY-SEVEN
The Drowning Wood
SAMUEL
Mary and I approached The Silver Serpent as sunset wrapped Renown in muffled orange light.Whistles piped in the distance, and somewhere to the north the boom of cannons sounded out in near flawless synchronicity.
I was dressed as a landsman today, with no hint of the captain in my practical, dark-green coat, open over a common waistcoat, shirt and neckerchief.Mary had dressed with equal modesty—a knitted shawl wound around her upper body, and she wore her hair under a felted hat with a broad yellow ribbon.
“They are only drills,” I told her, and rapped on the door of the inn.It was three-storied and broad, but in some state of disrepair.Its pale-blue paint was peeling and sun-bleached closer to grey.
“That lot?I’ve got a good two dozen of them here—though believe me, if times weren’t so hard, I wouldn’t have a single one,” the innwife said a few moments later in response to our inquiring after Mr.Pitten.“But they’ve gone out some time ago.Off to another isle for some heresy or another.Don’t tell me a fine pair such as yourselves pay them mind?”
“We most assuredly do not,” I replied.“Can you direct us to this island?”
After gleaning directions from the innwife, Mary and I set off once more.Thankfully the way took us directly out of town,across several bridges in the shadow of the east-facing sea wall and over patches of land, some more worthy than others to be called an island.
Finally, the wall ended at a large, antique watchtower, and we were afforded an unobstructed view of the western sea across a sweep of rock, winter-dulled scrub and plumes of spray.
One final bridge, this one wooden and creaky underfoot, took us to our destination.This was one of the few islands in the chain to support a tract of forest, all conifers rooted in soft sand, interspersed with rock and moss and beds of pungent needles.Ridges of snow still latticed the wood, but the breeze was warm.
“Fitting that the cult should come here,” I commented as Mary and I stopped at the edge of the forest.A clear path roamed ahead, girded with moss and shifted stones.
Mary reached out to squeeze my fingers, just for a moment.Then she approached the nearest tree and laid her palm on the bark.
“They’re at the western edge,” she said, her eyes searching my face.“I can go without you, Sam.”
I shook my head firmly and set off.After a step she caught up, and we proceeded side by side around the periphery of the forest.We moved quietly, not speaking, though there was little need for stealth.The island was full of the sound of waves, the dwindling cries of gulls, and the moan of the windblown trees.
