One lands way too close to his foot. “Maybe we should turn back, we’re going to get killed,” I argue. But we need food and water, and Eban’s leg is still bleeding. We’re weak and tired, on the run for two days already.
Arrows whistle through the air and slice the water nearby.
“They’re just warning shots. If they wanted to hit us they would.”
Then an arrow lands on the boat—and this one is on fire.
Eban lunges to grab it before it can set the boat aflame, but a huge swell lifts the vessel and knocks him back down. It wobbles with the wave, but thankfully the water douses the flame as well. I hold on but the relic tumbles from my lap and rolls across the bottom. Tadhana yells,Hey!
The bottle rolls away and I panic. I’m going to lose the relic to the depths. I crawl forward and reach out for the bottle as the craft sways sharply from side to side. I can’t reach it.
Don’t lose me!Tadhana yells.
“I’m trying!” I yell back.
Eban grabs on to my leg; he tries to hang on to the edge at the same time as the boat lurches side to side. The bottle rolls again, back and forth. It’s so close, my fingertips almost touch it. “Come on, come on,” I repeat, more desperately each time.
The boat tips the opposite way and the bottle rolls. But this time, I’m able to clasp it, only barely, in my fingers. As I do, the craft slams violently. My body bounces against it, almost knocking the wind out of me. “Ow!”
Eban clings on to me, keeping me from spilling over the side. The boat comes to a rest against the first floating dock. A ragtag bunch of Ophir, holding weapons and looking fierce, rush toward us, leaping from raft to raft.
Some of them pull swords, holding them up, ready to strike. They’re clad in homespun tunics and jagged britches tied at the waist with rope.
A tall and imposing woman pushes her way to the front and raises an axe. “We warned you to leave us alone! Now go!”
“We’re not Lacon!” Eban says, standing up and raising his arms in surrender. The interlocking diamond symbols on his arm glow in the firelight. “We’re Ophir from the Sleeve, we’re looking for help and shelter. Please, we’re just like you.”
Then a tall, muscular man with shiny black hair pushes his way through the growing crowd and walks in front of the woman, holding his arm out to keep her back. “It’s all right,” he assures her. She seems unconvinced but doesn’t protest. He clearly outranks her.
I wonder if I should show them the relic. Whether that might help, or cause more trouble. Tadhana has been quiet since the Lashing folk approached. The bottle is no longer glowing. I hide it back in my pocket for the time being.
The man in charge looks at me and Eban. His big dark eyes rest on me for an especially long time. He looks me up and down, as if evaluating a purchase. I turn away, uncomfortable.
“It’s all right, Perlah. They’re Ophir. They’re not Lacon. They look hungry. Ever seen a Laconian who looked that thin and desperate?” he jokes.
I flush. We definitely don’t look like much. Tattered clothes, mud on my face, Eban with that haunted look in his eyes.
Then the man smiles, a sight that feels somehow familiar and comforting, as if I know him from somewhere, though I can’t quite place it. I suppose we are all Ophir, after all. It makes sense he detects some kinship with us, and vice versa.
His arms open wide and his booming voice calls out, “My friends, welcome home!”
PART TWOTHE LASHING
CHAPTER SIXTEENEBAN
I’m flooded with relief as weapons are lowered and the leader helps to secure our lines, docking our boat, adding us to the flotilla. My leg is throbbing and my head hurts, but we’re safe for now. I step out of the boat onto the makeshift foundation. It’s more like solid ground than I expected, nothing like a raft floating on the sea. There’s no sway or bounce.
“Darius,” he says. He’s solidly built, about my height and age. He has a confident air about him, very unlike any Ophir I’ve known. But maybe living in the Lashing instead of the Sleeve will do that to a person. He hasn’t had to grovel and sneak all his life if he’s lived here instead of under Lacon.
I shake his hand and the hand of the similarly tall, muscular woman standing beside him. Her face is lined and weathered, and she has a stern, though not unkind, air about her. “Perlah,” she says.
“And you are…” Darius addresses this inquiry to me first, in a vaguely challenging tone.
“Eban, and this is my—this is Gin.” I’m not sure what to call Gin—we’re barely friends, and it would take too long to explain how we ended up here together.
Darius nods, and helps Gin out of the boat as well, easily lifting her onto the dock. Then he bows to her as if she’s a visiting dignitary. Gin looks uncomfortable about the gesture and stands awkwardly, keeping a hand in her pocket, where I’m assuming she’s holding on to the relic.
I’m dazed and lightheaded from blood loss and the effort it took to get here. I made it to the Lashing—I should be ecstatic, but all I feel is exhausted.
