by Karen Miller
With a sob, she surrendered. Straightaway the reef’s blight rushed in, filling her, and instead of beating it back she opened herself even wider. Welcomed it, breathing it in right down to her toes. She tasted the taint of it, bitter on her tongue. Felt the icy scalding of it, curdling her blood. It felt so familiar. The same blight was in Da.
And I’m his daughter. If he can survive it then sink me, I can too.
So the blight was in her now, trapped within her shaking body. What could she do with it? How could she turn the evil against itself?
Olken magic is all coaxing, a thing of subtlety and kindness. Doranen magic is brash and bossy. It wants its own way, no matter the cost.
That much she knew, after a lifetime spent watching Ma, and Da, and Rafel.
And I have both magics in me, don’t I? Like Rafel and Da? So there must be a way to meld them. There must be a way I can use both magics to save us.
With a moan of exhaustion Charis lost her grip on the tiller and slumped shaking to the skiff’s water-soaked floorboards. “I’m sorry, Deenie,” she croaked. “I can’t—I can’t—”
She was so full of ruined magic she couldn’t speak, or even give her friend an encouraging smile. Never mind. She’d explain afterwards. If there was an afterwards. If her desperate hunch was right. Ignoring Charis’s misery, because there just wasn’t time, Deenie released her own grip on the tiller. The skiff slewed wildly, answering the whirlpools’ greedy call. Charis screamed. She ignored that too, ignored the three howling waterspouts and the whirlpools that with each tight turn pulled the skiff ever closer.
Feeling strangely peaceful, she rose to her feet, riding the skiff’s wild plunging as though she and the boat were one. Then she took a deep, salt-laden breath and held it, held it, until her lungs burned. Closed her eyes and imagined the blight an arrow with herself the bow. And then, just as she thought her lungs must surely burst, she let out the pent-up blight with her pent-up breath, aimed it straight and sure at the three whipping waterspouts… and let it fly.
The tainted magic burning through her made her shout aloud in pain. And then she shouted in triumph as the waterspouts collapsed.
Never in her life had she felt like a real mage. Not until this moment. And not until this moment had she realised how much she cared. Jubilant, she let the blight fill her again. Gathered it up, aimed it at the whirlpool closest to the skiff and again let it fly. Three more times she battered the whirlpool, and on the third assault she felt the maelstrom falter.
One final time she opened herself to the blight, pulling its poison inside until she thought her body would fissure and fall apart, so full of pain she couldn’t remember when she wasn’t.
This time, following instinct, she poured the blight’s power into the water beneath the skiff. As she felt the waves lift them she dropped beside the tiller, grabbed hold and aimed the skiff’s bow straight. Dizzy, she felt the boat skim through the air as the waves surged them past the line of whirlpools and the uneasy stretch of harbour where the waterspouts spawned. The sail rippled then bellied again, and she felt salt spray in her face.
Huddled on the skiff’s floorboards, Charis stared up at her. “What did you do, Deenie? What did you do?”
There was so much lingering pain but still, she had to laugh. “Took a leaf from Rafe’s book!” Her stomach churned. “Charis—Charis—take the tiller—keep us straight—”
Scrambling, Charis took it. Deenie folded over the skiff’s side and was sick.
As she hung there, retching, she felt the rain stop and heard Charis give a little yelp. “Deenie, the storm’s clearing! There’s blue sky behind us and it’s spreading this way!”
Blearily she straightened and looked round, still holding on to the skiff’s side. Yes. There was blue sky. And just faintly she could feel an easing of tension. As the storm faded so did the roiling in her blood. Not by much—they were still too close to the ruined reef for that—but she’d gladly take what little she was offered. Her mouth tasted vile and her throat was scalded with acid.
And then her strength failed completely, and she slumped to the skiff’s floorboards. “Keep hold of that tiller, Charis. There’s wind enough to keep us going for a while.”
“Me?” squeaked Charis. “But I can’t! How can I? You’re the sailor, not me! And what about the waterspouts? What about—”
Deenie pressed her palms against her salt-stung eyes, perilous close to tears. “Oh, Charis, stop wittering,” she said, her voice like a tremor. “We’ve clear water up ahead. Just—I don’t need long. I only need a few moments. Please.”
Because she felt everything, she felt Charis’s swift hurt and even swifter concern. “Deenie? What’s amiss?”
“Nowt,” she whispered, falling back on Da’s funny word. “I’m a mite weary, is all.”
“Then rest,” said Charis. “I’ll howl if something goes wrong.”
You won’t need to. I’ll feel it.
But the offer warmed her, and she was so cold.
Curled on her side, with her leathers clammy and salt-stained and her soaked hair a burden, she listened to the harbour running swiftly past the hull. Smiled at the first light touch of fresh sunshine on her skin.
I did it, Da. Sink me bloody sideways, I did it.
Except they didn’t sink. They’d faced whirlpools and waterspouts and a fierce storm on open water—and survived.
This time.
Sobered, groaning, she sat up. Caught her breath as every muscle and sinew starkly protested. Her leathers groaned too, shrunken and constricting.
“You all right, Charis?”
Her friend was clutching the tiller so tight it was a wonder the wood didn’t split. She looked afraid to breathe too deeply, as though a twitch or a hiccup would send her skywards like a startled bird.
“No, Deenie,” said Charis. “I’m not all right! How did you do that? Papa told me what happened when Rafe and your da fought the waterspouts and the whirlpool. But this was different, wasn’t it? Rafe, he has all that power inside him and your da set it free. Is that what you did, all by yourself? How? Deenie—your face—it was frightening.” Her voice broke. “You frighted me.”
She felt the dazzle of triumph fade. “Charis, I’m sorry. I was only trying to keep us safe.”
“I know, and you did,” said Charis. “But it’s how you did. Please, Deenie, tell me. What did you do?”
Instead of answering, she stared across the calming harbour waters to the distant shore on their right. Where were they? How far had they come? With the storm’s murkiness lifting she could just make out the rocky coastline. And there were the twin Gantling waterfalls, plunging over the cliffs and into the harbour.
Not so very far, really. There’s so much further to go.
Would they have enough food? Enough water? How many more waterspouts and whirlpools would they have to escape? They’d sailed through one storm. How many more would blow in to plague them?
Are we mad to attempt this? I think we must be.
She felt like a weathercock, crazily swinging. One moment elated, the next drowned in despair.
What if we’re faced with calamity again and I have to open myself a second time to the blight? Then a third time? A fourth? How many times can I do that and not do myself harm?
“Deenie!” said Charis. “If you don’t talk to me I swear I will turn this horrible skiff about and sail us back to Westwailing!”
Still, she hesitated. Tipping her face skywards, she looked at the swiftly thinning storm clouds. Lots of reassuring blue to see now. And no sense of another storm riding in hard over Dragonteeth Reef. No sense of nearby waterspouts or whirlpools. This stretch of the harbour was clean. She could still feel the reef, though, broken glass in her blood. And if she squinted she would see waterspouts, dancing along its distant edge.
On a sigh she turned and looked at Charis. “We’ll be sunny for a goodly while. You should shrug out of those wet clothes and change into dry. You mustn’t go catching
an ague.”
Charis made a spitting sound, just like an angry cat. “I can tell for myself when I’m wet to the skin! Just you answer my question, Deenie—and take the tiller while you’re about it. You’re the sailor here, not me.”
They swapped places, cagily shifting in the small boat as the bright breeze kept their sail filled and skimmed them along. Deenie watched Charis, on her knees, haul her haversack from under the sheltering sheet of canvas and pull out a dry blouse and skirt. Then, as she unbuttoned her wet, bulky guardsman’s tunic, her friend glanced up and scowled.
“Deenie.”
“I don’t know if I can explain,” she protested. “And if I try I might end up frighting you again.”
“Believe me,” said Charis, shrugging out of the tunic. “I can’t be frighted any worse.”
That made her blink. “What do you mean?”
“There were shadows,” Charis muttered. “Sliding under your skin.”
She felt herself prickle up and down her spine. “Shadows?”
“I don’t know,” said Charis, shaking her head. “Maybe I was dreaming it. Maybe it was the storm playing tricks with my eyes. But that’s what it looked like, Deenie. When you—when you were being a mage? There were shadows.”
Shadows, sliding under my skin. “I used the blight against itself, Charis,” she said, hushed. As though saying the words softly robbed them of strength and power. “I—I pulled it in and then I spat it out again, and when I spat it out it was changed. It was a weapon.”
Charis tossed the wet tunic onto the rower’s bench. “You pulled it in?” she echoed. “Into yourself, you mean? The blight? Deenie! What were you thinking?”
So now Charis was going to scold her?
When I saved our lives, too. How’s that for being grateful?
Feeling waspish, she narrowed her eyes. “If you must know, Charis, I was thinking we had about half a dozen heartbeats between us before we both drowned!”
Mouth open, Charis stared. Then she pressed shaking hands to her face, shoulders slumping. When at last she lowered them, there were tears on her cheeks.
“Promise me you’ll never do that again,” she said, ragged. “Promise me you won’t ever take another mad risk like that!”
“I can’t,” she said simply. “How can I? When it might make the difference between life and death for Rafe and Lur, how can I?”
“Of course you can!” Charis cried. “Deenie, it’s the blight. It’s what’s left of Morg’s poisonous magics. You can’t muck about with that mank, you can’t breathe it in like fresh air and think you’ll not get sick. Didn’t you hear me? I saw shadows inside you!”
Deenie shrugged. “It’s no good, Charis. I can’t—I won’t—promise I’ll not do it again. If we’re going to find Rafel, if we’re going to save him, then we can’t be squeamish. I can’t be.”
New tears welled in Charis’s eyes. “It’s too dangerous. There has to be another way.”
“And if I think of one, I’ll use it. But if I can’t? If there isn’t? I’m trusting you to watch me, Charis. I’m trusting you to tell me if you notice anything else.”
“Anything else like what? What d’you mean, Deenie?”
“I don’t know!” Her headache was awake again, pounding pain behind her eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m making this up as I go, aren’t I? And that’s why I need you, Charis. You’re an Olken mage. You feel things. You notice things. And you know me. So if you think I’m going wobbly, if you think you see me changing then—”
Charis sat with a thump, rocking the skiff. “Changing how? Into what?”
“I don’t know, Charis,” she said, and frowned. “Just… changing.”
“I’m starting to think this was a mistake,” Charis said, hugging her knees. “Maybe we should turn back, Deenie. It’s not too late. Westwailing isn’t that far behind us.”
“Turn back?”
Tearful again, Charis nodded. “I know I sound craven but Deenie, that was so awful. The storm and the ’spouts and the whirlpools. And now here you are telling me you’re letting the blight in, and you might change, and I have to watch you because something could go wrong? Deenie, what if it does and I don’t see it? Or what if I do see it but it’s too late to save you?”
Poor Charis. How unfair it was, that her loyal friendship should be repaid with terror and pain. Aching for her, somehow Deenie managed a teasing smile.
“I thought I was the mouse here, Charis. Not you.”
“Don’t, Deenie,” said Charis, looking down. “I’m shamed enough as it is. All those speeches I gave, all that fine, brave talk of rushing to save Rafel. About being Papa’s daughter. Turns out talk’s easy. Doing things? That’s hard.”
The last storm clouds were blown to tatters now, the sky warmly blue, the harbour lively but not lethal. This stretch of water remained clear, no grinding premonition of waterspouts spawning. The skiff fairly skipped along, its sail fat with the salt breeze. It was a perfect day for sailing.
Or it would be, if only the reef was free of blight. If only she could pretend she didn’t feel its dark, looming menace.
“Aye, it’s hard,” she agreed, after a moment. “But here we are, Charis, and we’re doing them. I know you’re frighted. I’m frighted. But this isn’t a mistake—and we’re not turning back.”
Charis sniffed. “We’re not?”
Closing her eyes, Deenie lifted her salt-sticky face to the sun. “No.”
“Oh.” A damp shuffling sound, as Charis shifted on the skiff’s boards. “Well.” Another sniff. “How long do you think it’ll take us to reach the far end of the reef?”
“I can’t say for sure,” she said, looking at Charis again. “A few days, it should be. But if we get more storms, or hit a few bad patches of waterspouts and whirlpools—most likely it’ll take a week. Maybe longer. Don’t worry. We’ve brought enough supplies.”
“It’s not the supplies I’m worried about,” Charis retorted. “It’s you getting enough rest so we don’t sink, or worse. I think you’d best be giving me a few sailing lessons, Meistress Deenie. That way, when the sun’s shining and there’s no ’spouts or whirlpools, you can put your head down and rest.”
And that made her stare. “Sailing? You?”
For the first time in what seemed like days, Charis grinned. “Aye, and why not me? Unless you don’t rate yourself a teacher, that is.”
“Saucy wench!” she said. “The question is, are you any kind of pupil?”
“I guess we’ll see,” said Charis. And then her smile faded. “Don’t worry, Deenie. I’ll keep a close watch over you. I’ll not let anything dark touch you. I promise.”
Warmed by much more than sunshine, she nodded. “And I promise I’ll keep you safe from whirlpools and waterspouts and Morg’s manky blight.”
And I will. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll see Charis kept safe.
Six days and five nights it took them to sail Lur’s ragged coastline to the distant end of Dragonteeth Reef. Several times they caught sight of figures standing on the inhospitable cliffs that lined most of the water’s edge. Word must have spread from Westwailing of the stolen skiff and the two mad girls braving Lur’s unchancy waters. But with no harbours this far along the coast, no safe way at all down to the water, nobody came after them and that was all that mattered. Let all of the kingdom stare, provided they didn’t interfere.
Charis wasn’t a born sailor, but she soon learned enough rudiments of tiller and sail that she could confidently keep the skiff on course in daylight and clear water. Then Deenie crawled under the canvas tent they’d fashioned and snatched an hour or two of desperately needed sleep.
Not that the rest was restful. As soon as her eyes closed she dreamed of her mother, memories dredged from childhood that made her toss and weep. She dreamed of her father, too, alone in that Billington hospice. And she dreamed of Rafel, more little girl rememberings. Once she thought she heard his voice, as she’d heard it in the royal cr
ypt, but it was faint. Too faint. Waking from that dream, all she could remember was fear.
Don’t give up, Rafe. We’re coming.
She wished she dared risk reading the scrawled notes in Barl’s diary, but a funny feeling told her to keep the journal tucked out of sight. What Charis didn’t know of couldn’t get her in trouble—and besides, with the weather and harbour so unpredictable there was a chance she might lose it over the skiff’s side.
And the same funny feeling told her that would be a disaster.
She and Charis grew miserably accustomed to being pickled in salt water, like brined herring, enduring sticky hair and sticky skin and grubby, salt-stiff clothing. They became used to the chafing and the blisters and the bruises as they battled their way towards the end of the reef. With no choice, they accepted the hunger pangs as they eked out their miserly hoard of nuts and hard-tack biscuits and dried beef, and drank sparingly of their stale water. Accepted too the crude necessity of a tin bowl for a shared chamberpot.
Three more times as they made their way along the coast they were battered by a storm blowing in across the reef from the uncharted, open ocean. To make things worse, as the bad weather crossed the reef it absorbed some of Morg’s blight, so the thunder and the lightning cracked and crashed and flung them without mercy from wave to wave and stern to bow. At the height of the third storm their battered sail ripped in two. Deenie blessed the skiff’s owner for that spare sail. It was patched and faded but it was there—which saved them.
And then of course there were the waterspouts and whirlpools. Every day they encountered them and every day she stretched her mage-sense to the fraying edge of its limits, pushed herself to nosebleeds and screaming headaches and half-fainting to keep the skiff from being sunk or pulled apart and herself and Charis drowned. That meant calling in the blight. It meant letting the darkness fill her so she could shoot it out again like an arrow, disrupting the ravenous tug of the whirlpools and collapsing the ’spouts in gouts of whipped-up water and foamed spray.
Even as controlling the dark power got easier with each use, the toll it took upon her grew. She could see that in Charis’s eyes, in the way her friend’s lips pinched and she said nothing more about shifting shadows, only held her hand tightly until the shuddering stopped.
