As the hesper dove forward, the Wraith Lord did not hesitate. “Burn!” he shouted, and this time, fire streaked from Connor’s outstretched hand. Flames engulfed the hesper, illuminating its fearsome outline clearly, showing its huge wings, sharp bill, and clawed feet in clear detail. Before its tumble into the sea, the creature’s feathers might have gone up like tinder. Now, it was heat and not flames that the hesper felt. The monster shot up in the air to avoid the blast, but the Wraith Lord’s talishte reflexes were just as quick.
Bright flame against the black night left trails of color in Connor’s vision as the Wraith Lord kept the hesper in his blast. The oil on the creature’s feathers had kept them dry enough to ward off the initial firestorm, but as the Wraith Lord held steady with the flames, the feathers began to smoke. By now, the hesper’s beak was soot-streaked, and flesh peeled from its calloused legs. In a flash of light too bright to watch, the hesper burst into flames and its huge burning body fell out of the sky, twisting as it went. Its broad wings clipped the outer edge of one of the Nomad’s sails, and the sail burst into flame, like a beacon on the dark sea. Then with a loud splash, the hesper fell into the sea, causing a wave that rocked the ship and sending water high enough into the air that it crashed across the deck.
“Watch out!” voices shouted as the burning sail began to rain embers down onto everything below it. Sailors ran for buckets, but it would take far too long even for Borya and Desya to climb high enough into the rigging to douse the flames, assuming they could stand the heat. Even then, the water would be a fraction of what was needed to put out the fire.
Connor watched with a growing feeling of detachment, as if the world around him was receding down a long corridor. His body felt too heavy to move, and the thoughts that were his own were slow. His right palm was as sore as if he had touched a hot stove, and he felt as if he had just done a hard day’s labor.
One more task, the Wraith Lord assured him. Connor felt the strange energy coalesce once more, humming through his body, gathering in his outstretched right arm with a tingling sense that rapidly became a pins-and-needles burn.
This time, the Wraith Lord directed Connor’s arm toward the sea off the port side. The Wraith Lord mumbled words Connor did not catch, and made a scooping motion with his hand. A torrent of seawater poured down onto the burning sail from out of the sky. It doused the flames and put out the embers smoking on nearby sails. The unexpected deluge nearly threw Desya and Borya from their perch, forcing them to cling to the rigging amid shouted curses. Sailors grabbed for something to hold on to as the water hit the deck with enough force to wash a man overboard.
The ship rocked with the hit, and then all was quiet. Blackened strips of cloth hung from the ruined sail, and the smell of burning hemp and oilcloth filled the air as charred bits of rope fluttered to the deck like dark snow.
“What in the name of the gods are you?” Captain Whitney said, staring at Connor with wide eyes.
“Tired,” Connor slurred, and found that his legs would no longer support him.
Once again, I have pushed you too far, the Wraith Lord’s voice sounded in his mind, but it was faint and far away. Then he heard nothing more except the thud of his body against the planking as he collapsed to the deck.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CONNOR FLOATED IN A PLACE BETWEEN WORLDS. He remembered feeling fear, then exhilaration, and finally, overwhelming exhaustion.
Rest. You did well. The Wraith Lord’s voice sounded in the darkness, a reassuring presence.
If you could do your magic through me, why wait until now? I can think of a couple dozen times it would have been quicker to just ‘poof’ the enemy out of existence. Exhausted as he was, Connor had enough energy left for a bit of righteous annoyance.
Do you remember the toll it took on you, just to allow me to use your body to fight with a sword?
That’s not the kind of thing you forget. When the Wraith Lord had first begun to possess Connor, even a short battle had taxed Connor’s strength to the breaking point. More than once in those early days, Connor had nearly died from hosting the Wraith Lord’s greater power that burned through him like a candle held to a roaring fire. Permitting the Wraith Lord to fight through him in those dire situations had saved countless lives. Yet the injuries Connor sustained and the depletion of his own life force had forced Penhallow to take desperate measures to heal him. Those measures had bound Connor even more closely to Penhallow through the kruvgaldur, a bond that was telepathic and empathic. Over time, the depth of that bond had begun to make Connor stronger, more resilient, but at the cost of making him less and less mortal.
I dared not channel my magic through you, the Wraith Lord said. Look at how just my essence taxed you sorely.
That might be an understatement, Connor thought. It damn near killed me. Possessed by the Wraith Lord, Connor moved faster, struck harder, fought without fatigue, felt less pain—until his body could withstand the strain no more, and he collapsed.
You’re only now strong enough to withstand such power, the Wraith Lord continued patiently. And even so, only for short bursts.
When you were… embodied… you could do more magic at one time? Connor’s curiosity about the man Kierken Vandholt had been before he became the Wraith Lord won out even over his exhaustion.
Oh yes, the Wraith Lord replied. I was an equal to any of the Knights of Esthrane, and perhaps even more skilled than some.
So that’s what it feels like to actually do magic? It had never occurred to Connor that he might experience the thrum of a mage’s power through his own body, though he had occasionally wondered what it would be like to be able to harness that energy.
He had been in the presence of devastatingly strong magic more times than he cared to count, over the last year. First, the night of the Great Fire, and then at Valshoa and Mirdalur, when Blaine attempted to restore the magic. In between, in so many battles, Connor had seen what mages could do, and the sheer raw power of it, compared with his more subtle skill with spirits, had always awed and humbled him. And, to be honest, scared the shit out of him.
The Wraith Lord’s laughter was a low rumble, like distant thunder. For someone with so strong a gift as yours, your humility is amusing. You never cease to amaze me, Bevin Connor.
Connor thought for a moment. Could Nidhud have done what you—we—did?
You saw his power, the Wraith Lord replied. But talishte-mages have a fundamental problem with fire magic. Even if they can cast it, the risk to themselves is so great most will not do so unless they intend it as a death strike. Mortals are much less flammable.
They fell silent for a moment as Connor mulled over what he had seen in the battle.
Am I damaged from tonight’s work? Did I die? Until that moment, it had not occurred to Connor that he and the Wraith Lord might be conversing in the Unseen Realm, the place between life and death where souls barred from the punishment of Raka or the rest of the Sea of Souls drifted for eternity, the wasteland of the afterlife, where Kierken Vandholt was condemned to wander.
You did not die, the Wraith Lord assured him. But I erred in pushing you too far, though it was necessary to save the ship. We are still exploring the limits of your new strength, both through your bond to Penhallow and what you gained at Mirdalur, as a Lord of the Blood.
Now that we know it’s possible, can you call the magic up through me again?
The Wraith Lord chuckled. Your spirit intrigues me, Connor. In one thought, you check to see if you are dead, and in the next, ask to channel the same power again.
It’s not meant to be funny, Connor replied peevishly. I didn’t know magic was even an option. Now that it is, even briefly, it might save me from getting sliced up in so many sword fights.
I have no desire to damage so fine a host as yourself, the Wraith Lord said with fond amusement. You serve me well, as you do Penhallow. And like Penhallow, I have sworn to protect you as best I may. You are the pivotal person in this journey. If you don’t
survive, the journey fails and so may any attempt to use the Elgin Spike. So I will judge when and how we draw on my magic, and we will learn those limits together. Fair enough?
More than fair, Connor acknowledged. Now I think I’d like to sleep.
“I was afraid we might not get you back.” Zaryae’s voice reached Connor through the last wisps of sleep.
He opened his eyes, finding himself in their quarters belowdecks. His hammock swung gently with the motion of the ship, and the light streaming in from the single porthole let him guess how much time had passed since the battle. “I’m here,” he rasped.
Zaryae put a hand behind his head and helped him sit up enough to drink from a wineskin. “You had us worried.”
“I thought everyone was used to this by now.” Connor still felt weak and spent. His right hand was wrapped in strips of cloth.
“Not sure exactly what kept your hand from being burned to a cinder,” Zaryae said, “but the skin is slightly blistered, so I made a salve and wrapped it.”
“Thank you,” Connor replied, dropping back against the hammock. “How is the ship?”
Zaryae sighed. “Worse for the wear, but not as bad as it would have been without your help. Borya and Desya are up on deck helping rig the spare sails Captain Whitney brought with us, thank the gods. Verran is lending a hand fetching and carrying, and helping spool the ropes.”
“And I’m lying here, useless.”
Zaryae chuckled. “You were plenty useful last night. And to tell the truth, I think it’s probably for the best that you not make an appearance right away. From what I heard, the sailors are spooked about what happened.”
“Which part? The monster or the mages?”
“Both,” Zaryae said. She helped him sit once more, and spooned broth for him from a bowl of warm soup. “Whitney may be kruvgaldur-bound to one of the Elders, but I’m betting he’s seen precious little magic, or at least, nothing of battle magic. Nidhud kept him away from you after the fighting was over, and made it clear that Whitney’s oath to his talishte patron meant that Whitney had personally secured your safety with his own life.”
Connor groaned. “I bet that went over well.”
Zaryae lowered the empty bowl. “Whitney strikes me as a reasonable man. Anyone who’s been at sea for a length of time has seen a lot of strange things. And I’m betting he had heard tales of such magic, whether he believed them or not. He’ll come around.”
“What about the crew? Do I have to fear being tossed overboard as a jinx?” Connor asked, feeling the warmth of the soup in his belly. Hosting the Wraith Lord took more than psychic strength and borrowed energy. That level of full body-and-spirit magic left Connor depleted as if he had fought a physical battle. With the heightened strength of the kruvgaldur, it might take only one or two days for Connor to get back on his strength, compared with the much longer recuperation he had required without the bond.
“I think you’re more at risk of none of them wanting to come within twenty feet of you,” Zaryae responded. “They were already leery of Nidhud, since he’s talishte. But they don’t know what to make of you.” She chuckled. “If you’ll forgive me saying so, you’re far more powerful than you appear.”
“That’s the Wraith Lord, not me,” Connor replied.
“Really? I’ve seen how you use your power,” Zaryae differed. “You’ve done things with your abilities that didn’t involve the Wraith Lord’s magic or skill that turned the tide of battle. You don’t fully comprehend just how powerful a gift you have.”
“I know that it keeps nearly getting me killed,” Connor grumbled.
“More to the point, it’s saved you and your friends—and their cause—on more than one occasion,” Zaryae pointed out. As she talked, she made a mixture of leaves and powders from her pouches, then moistened it with a few drops of water and made a small wad of it.
“Let this dissolve in your mouth. Don’t chew it, but it won’t hurt to swallow the juice. It will replenish your energy, and take away some of the pain.”
“What about the ship?” Connor pressed.
Zaryae sighed. “Even with what you and Nidhud did, the Nomad took some damage. Broken railing, torn-up decking, and of course, the sails and rigging that were burned. It’s going to cost us some time to fix what can be set right before we can move on, but Whitney believes we’ll be under way soon. He’s hoping he can repair the more serious damage in Edgeland, while they’re waiting for us to do what we need to do.”
“And in the meantime, we’re sitting ducks.”
Zaryae looked away. “Yes.”
Connor frowned. “Talk to me. You’ve seen something, haven’t you? We’re in danger.”
Zaryae fixed him with a matter-of-fact look. “Any ocean voyage involves danger,” she said. “Many things could happen, but that doesn’t mean they will happen. Unfortunately, my foresight sees the possible, not merely the probable.”
“What have you seen?”
Zaryae shivered and set aside the empty bowl, wrapping her arms around herself. “I see storms and darkness. I see danger in the dark water. I feel that death will brush close to us. And regardless of which possibilities come to pass, I fear that not all of those now on board will be among the living when we return to Donderath.”
Connor sighed. “I’m not sure which is worse—me channeling the spirits of the dead, or you getting a glimpse of every possible thing that could go horribly wrong.”
Zaryae managed a sad smile. “Our gifts, our magic, make us who we are. They’re a tool, and a burden. No different than a sword that has to be wielded carefully so that it doesn’t cut its owner as well as its foe.”
Connor grimaced. “I can sheath my sword, and be done with it. No one’s shown me yet how to sheath my ‘gift.’”
“Unknown ship, closing fast!” the sailor on watch shouted from his perch high in the rigging.
Three days after the fight with the hesper, Connor had finally ventured onto the deck. The last few days had been sunny and still. This day was overcast, and the wind had picked up. Connor lifted his face to the sky, wondering if it would rain.
The weather had held long enough for the crew to rig the replacement sails and fix the worst of the damage to the ship. Connor had stayed in his quarters, recovering. Zaryae and Verran brought him food and supplied him with news. Borya and Desya remained with the crew, and their dexterity and fearlessness climbing the rigging won them the admiration of the sailors. Verran pitched in when he could, and kept the sailors entertained with music when there were no tasks for him to do.
Up by the ship’s wheel, Connor could see Captain Whitney with his spyglass, scanning the horizon in the direction indicated by the scout. “How soon will you have the rigging finished?” he shouted down to the crew.
“A few more candlemarks, sir,” Trad, Whitney’s second-in-command, shouted back. “Bit more of a challenge in the wind, but we’ll get them in place.”
“We need to get moving right away,” Zaryae said, staring at open water. “If that ship catches up, there’s going to be trouble.” She gathered her skirts and climbed the stairs, and Connor hurried behind her, though he was leery of coming face-to-face with Captain Whitney after what had happened.
“Captain!” Zaryae hailed Whitney. “That ship you’ve spotted. It’s trouble. We need to keep it from catching up to us.”
Whitney’s gaze went from Zaryae to Connor. His eyes were suspicious, and Connor was sure he saw a glint of fear as well. “What’s so important? We’re not fully rigged yet.”
Zaryae took a deep breath. “I see things, Captain. Things that haven’t happened yet. And I know that if we close with that ship, there will be trouble.”
Whitney raised his glass again. “Maybe. Maybe not. Here’s the thing. The wind’s picking up. My storm glass says we could be in for some bad weather. I’d hoped the men would have the rigging fixed before this, but there’ve been problems.”
“Problems?” Connor asked.
Whitn
ey’s gaze narrowed as he looked at Connor. “One man died when the rope he used for support gave way under him. The replacement sail had a rip in it, so that took time to mend. The cordage was tangled, although my men swear it was stored properly. It’s been one damned thing after another, which is why we’re still sitting here when there’s a storm brewing.”
His eyes glinted angrily. “After the fight with that monster, I’ve now lost several good men and more are injured. We were running a slim crew to begin with, so that means fewer hands for more work. Now we might be in for another attack.” He shook his head. “And we’re only just into the voyage.”
Zaryae shrugged. “My foresight isn’t perfect, Captain. I could be wrong, but when my instinct is so strong, I’ve learned to trust it. Perhaps it’s not the intent of the new ship to harm us. Maybe it’s something about them drawing close that will cause a problem. All I’ve got is a warning. No details.”
Whitney gave a harrumph and made a face that gave them to know exactly what he thought of vague predictions. “I’d thank you to keep your predictions between the three of us,” he replied. “My men are still buzzing about what happened the other night.” He turned to Connor. “If we get into a tight place with these newcomers, can you do something about it?”
“That would depend on what needs to be done,” Connor replied.
“Can you magic up the rigging, fix it, and get us under way?”
Connor sighed. “Maybe there are mages who can, but I can’t. I’m more use in a fight than anywhere else. My power comes and goes.” That was technically true. If he’s jumpy about magic, I doubt he’d like the real explanation, that I’ve got to let a thousand-year-old talishte-mage possess my body in order to do anything he’d consider to be ‘magic.’ “And Nidhud won’t be able to help until after nightfall.”
Whitney nodded. “All right, then. We’re not entirely without defenses. Mister Trad—a word with you!”
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