"Shut up, the lot of you!" Taking a place beside me, he draped one big arm around my shoulder. "If this pretty witch can find the courage to climb up and handle the blighted mess, you sure as hell bet I can. And shame on the rest of you! Career sailors, letting a desert slave do your dirty work."
My mouth dropped open, and I was about to correct him—please, please stop calling me witch, or slave, or whatever it was Jahn just called me—when two more of the crew sheepishly came forward to join us. Arne clapped his hands for silence again.
I caught sight of Bannon at the edge of the crowd, leaning on the bannister of the steps leading up to the stern deck. He watched me with a look of appreciation, arms crossed over his chest, one brow cocked, as if he hadn't expected this of me.
But why shouldn't he have? I'd never shied from work before. I'd set out determined to make him and all the Sanraethi see I meant to earn my keep as more than a simple concubine or scheming prostitute, as some of them believed me. I'd served in any role assigned to me, ever since he set me free of my chains in the castle. What was so different this time?
"Can't go right up into the rigging yet, Captain," Jahn said to Arne, speaking loud enough so that the whole crowd could hear him. "Got to cleanse the shrouds and spars. Chase the spirits out of all the shadowy corners."
"We can't let these blood-soaked sails hang over us all night!" one of the crew shouted.
"I won't take a mending crew up there without first being sure the damned sea hags are gone," Jahn replied, regarding the sailor with a hard glitter in his eye. "I didn't see you volunteering to join my team, anyway. By all means, if you've changed your mind, you can take my knife and shimmy right on up there. I tell you, you'll put your foot down on a broken spar or a loose line and fall to your death while the skilggra cackle away above us all."
More unhappy grumbles made their way through the group. Jahn gave me a knowing smirk, though, and added under his breath, "They'll natter on about bad luck and angry spirits all they like, but they won't cross the skilggra if they can help it. Sea hags are some of the cruelest and most spiteful creatures beyond the veil."
"So why aren't you concerned about crossing them?" I glanced from one bloodied canvas to the next.
"Oh, to be sure, I wouldn't tempt the bitches either, as long as I had a choice. Jumping right into the rigging lines will only play into their mischief and end up with one or more of us strangled, broke-legged, or thrown overboard. That's why we're going to smoke them out, first. Got to burn lots of spice and tobacco to drive them off. We either do it right or have worse luck later, and farther out."
"Tricky work, smoking the bitches," Torv grunted. "Especially having just pinned up the holes in the ship thanks to fire. But we'll set up tin buckets with some pungent tobacco and keep a careful eye on them through the night."
He took his pipe from his mouth and blew a ring of smoke up toward the main sail. "That'll be the hardest part. Make no mistake. Keeping the flames low and watching for stray cinders. Once we have it out of the way and the hags clear, cutting down the canvas will be hardly worth a spit."
I grimaced and looked out across the deck at the crowd, full of nervous faces. Arne had already started issuing orders to the rest of the sailors, while Mara began gathering the soldiers for instruction. I moved in her direction, ready to report for whatever new tasks she'd have for us, when someone took gentle hold of my arm.
"C'mon, kitten." Bannon led me in the opposite direction. "You'll have your hands full enough tomorrow. The others can manage whatever is left tonight."
Wary unease filled my gut. "Sir?"
He put a finger to my lips. We slipped into the stern, unnoticed except perhaps by Jahn and Torv.
"I'm proud of you," Bannon said, guiding me past the first set of doors toward the aftmost cabin. I had thought it would house the captain's sleeping quarters, but when Bannon gestured me in, I found a brightly lit study, one wall covered in shelves of nautical tomes and atlases, and books I guessed to be Sanraethi tales of mythology.
Next to the shelves stood two desks carved of a dark and heavy-looking wood, with parchment tucked into neat stacks and quills standing ready beside inkpots. Across from these were a pair of couches and a globe. I drifted toward it, fascinated; I'd never seen a globe, even when I'd accompanied Alaric as his bodyguard in raids on foreign soil.
At the very back of the room, wide windows gave a glorious view of the sea, bobbing and sparkling in our wake. As I gazed out over the water, some sleek, blue sea creatures leapt from below, their smooth skins glimmering.
"Dolphins," Bannon told me, taking a place beside me. "Friendly things. Some of the crew think they're shapeshifters or mermaids in disguise. They keep away sharks."
"Sir?" I faced him, uncertain. "You said you're proud of me? For what?"
"Volunteering to go up into the sails."
He said it easily, as though it should have been obvious. Taking me by the elbow, he guided me to a soft, velvet-lined divan and bade me sit with him. He shifted me to face the window so I could watch the dolphins and the white lace of sea foam trailing behind the ship.
"All the upsetting experiences you've had on this voyage," he said, combing his fingers through my hair. "I know you fear dark magic is at work. Yet you were still the first to say you would face a terrible portent head on. I am proud because my kitten is brave, even in the face of unknown danger."
"It's getting worse." I twisted to face him again. "Everyone saw it this time. At first it only affected me, but now—"
He put his hands on my shoulder and pointed me back toward the windows. "I should never have doubted you, Sadira. You have an eye for the veil unlike any person I've met before."
"The veil?" My fingers came up to toy with the end of my braid. "Jahn mentioned that, too."
Bannon gathered back my hair, and then, to my surprise, he produced a small brush and began running it through the short layers.
"Where did you get that?" I asked, tone softening.
"I bought it from the innkeeper's wife before we left. I know this isn't as fine as one of the luxurious combs you had in Vashtaren, but—"
When he'd called me in here, I'd expected the worst. A scolding, or some cold proclamation he was through with our arrangement after all. Instead, after days of uncertainty and awkward silence, he'd bought me a gift. He wished to pamper and praise me.
I closed my eyes, awash in warmth and sweet relief, and reached back to stroke his cheek. "It's wonderful.
"It's just a humble little thing made of plain wood." He chuckled. "I'll find you something nicer once we've reached Sanraeth."
"I don't care how pretty the brush is." I leaned against him as he combed. "I love this. Your touch... your affection. Your pride in me."
He kissed the top of my head. "Consider it a reward for such beautiful bravery."
We fell quiet for a few moments, as I basked in the attention, practically aglow with joy.
"What do you mean by 'the veil'?" I finally asked, hoping I wouldn't spoil the mood.
"The realm of spirits and devils. That which is unseen. Magic."
Reaching out a hand, I pressed my fingers gently to the cool glass of the window. As the sun set, it cast the ghost of my reflection back at me, and I stared at the lines of deep red, like blood, running over my skin.
"You seem to perceive it in ways the rest of us do not. I can't say I understand it. As I've told you, in Sanraeth, magic is rare, and belongs to the miracle workers of Sherida. They don't deal in ghosts, or summonings, or dark invocations like your Vash sorcerers. Theirs are the godly powers of blessing, of compelling evil to withdraw, and of healing the soul."
I grimaced, watching my reflection do the same. "It all sounds the same to me, Sir. The disciples of Sherida call upon blessings while Alaric and Rikhi called it the favors of Akolet. I see little difference in calling up dark beings and ordering them out and about."
"Well..." he hedged. "Don't let Ailsa hear you say it."
"Perhaps in failing to manifest magic, I fail to properly respect it, as well."
"But you've sensed it, yet again, as it presses down on us. From now on, I'll take your counsel on the subject as golden, and never doubt you."
I didn't know if I wanted that much faith. If I sensed dark spirits and evil hexes, it seemed just as likely that again, I'd drawn it upon us, and we still had no answer as to why it had come, or what it heralded.
Alaric? I took my palm from the glass and touched the tattoo over my eye. The tattoo he'd given me with the promise it would hone insight and heighten perception. Bannon was certain the vicious king's last scrap of power had burned away when I broke free of my collar and we'd slayed the awful seven-headed beast he'd become.
But if Alaric truly was gone... what otherworldly presence had come to take his place?
And what did it want with me?
Chapter Twenty-Five
I reported to the base of the main mast first thing in the morning, meeting Jahn before first light had broken through the thick blankets of fog. The acrid aromas of tobacco and alligator pepper made my eyes water; the smoke from last night's fires still hung thick over the weather deck, low and hazy. With close fog and little breeze, we'd be choking on it for a while.
The last of the night crew were just dousing the remaining pots and buckets of burning herbs as I found Jahn through the huddle of shapes and shadows. He greeted me with a prim bow—not a common greeting among the Sanraethi, as far as I'd seen. I returned the gesture, feeling stilted and a little foolish.
"Do you think the skilggra are gone?" I asked, glancing at the sails overhead, barely visible in the dark, ugly mire. If there really were hags, and they really were repelled by the dizzying reek in the air, I couldn't imagine there'd be any left within several leagues of us.
"For certain." Jahn nodded, twirling the end of his moustache while he watched the last of the crew douse the final pot and carried it away. "They'll be long gone by now and stay well away."
"The crew still don't seem very motivated to get up into the rigging."
I crossed my arms and leaned against the mast, glancing back and forth in deliberate gesture to the empty deck around us. Jahn gave a soft chuckle and rocked back onto his heels in a charming singsong way. I decided I quite liked him and offered him a smile.
"It's early yet," he said, "and too dark in this fog. We'll wait for the sun to rise higher and burn some of it away. By then Torv and the others will be along."
"And how do we do this?"
He drew his knife from his belt and held it out to show me. It wasn't a fighting knife, like Bannon carried. This blade had been forged in a hooked, almost talon-like manner, with a row of serrated teeth along the first part of the inner edge, close to the handle.
"The sails are made up of segments," he explained. "We'll cut away the damaged portions and save as much of the good canvas as possible. Then we patch the areas of missing sail with fresh sailcloth. It's a long process, mind you, and you'll be plenty sick of it by the time we're through."
I hesitated before asking my next question. "Do you really believe it was the work of evil spirits? Sea hags?"
Jahn glanced around us, a shrewd glimmer in his eye.
"You're pretty sure up in the ropes, aren't you? Yes, I've seen you climbing up in the ratlines before. We can probably go up now without too much trouble, long as you're careful."
I cocked an eyebrow. Why the sudden change of tone? Before I could ask, he had turned and taken hold of the ladder rungs on the mast and begun to climb.
I stooped to give Schala a quick scratch before following him up. We reached the first spar and moved out onto the rigging lines, working our way to the middle of the sail. Jahn moved with a natural ease, comfortable amid the ropes as I was, despite his age. As we reached the midpoint and he raised the knife to the canvas to show me the correct technique, he spoke in a jovial, conversational tone.
"Not so certain about the captain's conclusion, then, are you?" He grinned knowingly without looking away from his work. "Don't believe in flocks of skilggra catching up in our sails and taking out their anger this way?"
I couldn't decide if he was challenging me, offended by my doubt, or if he, too, thought the idea of skilggra unlikely. "I don't know. It's not the sort of spiritualism I'm familiar with. Sea spirits and vengeful fairies spreading havoc..."
"Right, you were taught to fear the great seven-headed serpent and his chosen sorcerers."
I narrowed my eyes. "Yes, exactly."
"And so, what does your faith tell you now, elathae?"
I reached out to take his wrist, stopping his cutting and making him look at me instead.
"What does that word mean? Why do you call me that?"
Jahn relaxed against the rigging, returning the knife to his belt and producing a pipe, similar to Torv's but with a much, much longer stem. Tamping a little tobacco into it and lighting it, he took a brief puff and eyed me with a shrewd, smiling expression.
"I'll tell you what elathae means," he said, "if you tell me what you think of these bloodied sails."
I wrinkled my nose at him and adjusted myself to lounge easily along the lines.
"I don't think it's mischievous or angry sea spirits." Bringing up a hand to my temple I closed my eyes and started kneading. "I think something else—something intrusive and malevolent—has found its way on board."
"Why would you think so?" Jahn drew on his pipe and blew out a winding silvery stream of smoke. How could he bear it, with the air around us already so clogged with such sharp, strong, unpleasant odors?
"I have dealt with a ghost before," I replied. Staring down through crisscrossing shrouds and waving canvas, I saw the morning crew beginning to mill about the deck, picking them out by the muted light of lanterns through the mists.
"Have you now?"
"Yes. He did not come because of hair cutting or spilling salt or because eggshells weren't crushed well enough. He came for me, out of jealousy and obsession."
I hesitated a moment before adding, "Many people died."
Jahn stroked his beard. "Well, no one on the Drekakona has met their end now, have they?"
"I might have. When the ropes caught me. And Mara could have when she fell overboard. If there is a vengeful spirit on the ship—and I have seen such a being, I think, a shadow of a person with wide, white eyes—who knows what it is capable of. There's still a ways to go before we reach Sanraeth, I'm told."
"And if such a being has indeed attached itself to our ship," Jahn mused, "why do you think it has done these things?"
I nibbled at my bottom lip, staring out into the lightening grayness of the morning. When Alaric haunted us, his actions followed a pattern. We hadn't seen it at the time perhaps, but in the end, he'd revealed it to me: at first, he'd only been strong enough to possess an adolescent boy, not suitable for a long-term host; then, an injured soldier; then a herd of horses. Only after some time, and a greater gathering of his strength, had he been able to claim significantly powerful hosts.
And always, once he'd possessed his victims, he'd been compelled to attack women. Any woman. The closest woman. Until he'd managed enough control over his own dark emotions to target me directly.
Was there such a pattern to be discovered now?
The doors back at the castle. The mob in Olyb. Rigging lines attempting to twist me into a dangerous, maybe deadly, version of the suspension my former master once employed for his entertainment.
A shadowy creature lurking in passageways where only I could see it. Ship's corridors turning into a maze, leading me to a cargo hold that didn't exist. All to show me—
I stared at my hands, recalling the dreams I'd stumbled into. Temples and altars. Serpent worship? The last dream, leading me from my tent, taking me out into the woods...
Chased by a hunter. Caught by a lover.
It hadn't been Bannon, not in that vision. But I hadn't been Sadira, either, had I?
I was... prim
al Woman. Wild and wanton, powerful and... and connected. The beast yearning within to be captured, dominated, subjugated. And it felt...
"Elathae," I murmured. In the vision, my unknown partner had called me elathae, just as Jahn had.
"What does it mean?" I asked him again.
Finished with his pipe, he tapped out the last of the tobacco ash and gave the bowl a quick wipe with a handkerchief, then stowed both in his pocket. He retrieved his knife again and went back to sawing through the canvas.
"Elathae, like the skillgra, are creatures of the old legends. Here, child, I think you get the idea now, so get out a knife and get to work."
I did as he asked, starting on a different segment of the sail. "Just spirits?"
"No. Elathae were spirit callers and enchanters among our ancestors. In times before the church of Sherida found its way into our land, and the Sanraethi people still worshipped the earth and its balance of forces, the elathae guided them in ritual and magic."
With an unhappy sigh, I stopped cutting and brought my free hand up to pinch the bridge of my nose. "You mean witch. That's what Torv said, too. When will people understand I am not a witch?"
"Are you not?" He gave me an innocent but incredulous look. "That cat seems to think so. They're good at recognizing spirit callers. And as I hear it, you whistled up a pack of black dogs scare off your enemies back in port."
"I don't know why Schala came to me, or those dogs. I spent most of my life with a sorcerer obsessed over finding magic in me, and in all that time I failed to display the tiniest spark of talent. I couldn't even manage sleight of hand for a laugh. I'm a soldier, not a spirit-caller or enchantress."
"Hm." He raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps it was the sorcerer who failed."
I scowled at him. "Let's just patch this sail, old man."
Jahn laughed, but he said no more about spirits or magic as we got down to the repairs.
Beauty's Secret (Beast and Beauty Book 2) Page 21
