“You’ve come back.”
Erinna’s hands shot up, swatting at the invisible hands. The phantom touch already fading. Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat thundering in her ears as her eyes swept the cemeteries. Headstones. Shadows. Silence.
She shoved her Talent back, willed the power to leave and rest where it was supposed to. She should have known better than to push that deep.
There were reasons mages trained their Talents for years. It took time to perfect the craft. If a mage wasn’t careful, arcanum could swallow you up and spit you out whole.
The hours blurred togetherin a haze of failures. By the time Erinna gave up for the day, the tips of her fingers had been rubbed red and would probably blister by nightfall. Sweat soaked through her shirt, and she’d somehow managed to get splinters as far down as her hip. Whatever ideas she and Brax could come up with to try and set the stone failed. Miserably.
The witchstone would not mold into the wood, and even when they’d come close to securing the ring to the ballast, it would not take the precious mana Asher lent them. The only person who’d successfully imbued witchstone into wood was her father, and Erinna counted herself a fool to think she could find a way.
“It’s just a feeling, mouse. I don’t know what to tell you. I put the magic in, and it bends for me.” It was the only set of instructions Kenneth had ever given on the craft.
She slumped next to her hard-won ally. The old man picked pieces of wood from his palm, brows furrowed in thought. “I think we’re getting close. Next time, for sure.”
Erinna groaned. Brax always said that. Five attempts ago, they were supposed to have figured it out, but here they sat—exhausted and no closer to success. If she couldn’t get something to work, Erinna feared her already short life would become even shorter.
“I’m finished, Brax.”
The old man nudged her shoulder—the force closer to a punch. “With an attitude like that, you won’t last with us.” Erinna lacked the energy to even roll her eyes. Restless nights and manual labor were taking their toll. Not to mention thefrustration of calling on her untrained Talent. With a grunt, Brax got to his feet to continue another project. One that was far more important for sailing.
“I just put the magic in, and it bends,” Erinna repeated her father’s old advice, staring in vain at the now charred spot in the ballast that sported a dull and unfused witchstone.
Perhaps if she had a conjuror. A transmuter could do it too. Or at the very least get closer than they were now. The sour taste of shame mixed with guilt. If she couldn’t find a way to uphold her end of the deal, whatever secrets her father had would lie entombed with his body.
The stone responded well enough to Asher’s magic, but it needed heat not wind. Yet, when Brax brought the torch, close enough to heat, but not close enough to catch the wood, the arcanum fizzled and died.
I put the magic in, and it bends,she repeated again in her mind, and slowly an idea dawned on her. There was more than one conjuror at the camp. Kane had been able to imbue his own fire into that tray, and whatever nuance that existed between Talent and Grace may be the key to setting that fickle stone to the mast. She’d seen Kane wield flame as expertly as any mage. If air and water wasn’t what the stone wanted, she’d give it fire instead.
Erinna shot to her feet and sprinted off the boat. The answer to her troubles may have been smirking her in the face all along.
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Kane paced the length of the small guardstation. The room lacked any windows and contained one functional door to the outside. It was perfect for viewing precious texts and avoiding prying eyes. The only light came from flickering lanterns that cast long shadows across the wall, bathing the two men in warm amber.
“It has to mean something,” said Kane, finishing his hundredth route from wall to wall.
Afton pushed away piles of papers and texts; clearly, they were of no help. He reached for another worn volume, brows knit into a permanent line of thought and confusion. “What did he say, exactly, when he gave it to you?”
“He said this is what we’re looking for. The books I have to burn will be in those areas, and the maps we need correspond to the last three numbers.”
They had this conversation before, and it hadn’t brought them any closer. Whatever nonsensical information Kenneth gave him brought them no closer to helping his search.
Kenneth Yarrow promised an easy answer to his problems. Said he could get the information on the maps he needed fromthe Chancellor’s library in exchange for burning a few books. He didn’t say it would be gibberish.
Kane groaned, running a hand through his hair. He should have expected something like this. Kenneth was a smuggler, no matter what his daughter wanted to believe. In caution, the man had coded his secrets before giving it to Kane—who was starting to believe the shipwright did it out of spite. Now they were stuck trying to translate the code, and the binds around his neck only added to the complexity.
How he wished he could make Kenneth pay for this. Perhaps he could force Erinna to wallow her days on theHellish Rebukeas their captive, as punishment for this absolute failure of a bargain.
Afton snapped a book shut with a sharp crack. “How does a shipwright have access to this?”
Kane agreed. Having such valuable information was well beyond a tradesman, even one as good as Kenneth Yarrow.
“I think they’re titles, but I don’t understand the numbers within. This is certainly not from Iprix’s notes or…” Afton trailed off in thought; something on the parchment seemed to catch his interest. Kane lifted his head higher, heart pounding with hope. Maybe they were finally about to get somewhere.
“I’ve got nothing,” Afton sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off a headache. “We’re close but?—”
