Pardon my directness, but if your own boat sank, why should we trust you? Connor questioned.
We didn’t sink because of the mountains. We had ‘run the ridge’ and gotten through the shallow peaks. But there was a storm that night, much like the one tonight, and our foremast was struck by lightning. The mast damaged the hull when it fell, and the storm caused us to founder.
All right, Remon, Connor said after he sensed the Wraith Lord signal him to proceed. That meant Vandholt’s spirit had made its own assessment of Remon and judged him worthy. We’re short on time.
Connor took a deep breath, and gripped the ship’s rail with both hands. He closed his eyes, shutting out the howling wind and the driving rain, the crash of the waves and the boom of the thunder. He could sense the Wraith Lord’s presence beside him, and that of Remon. Connor forced his shoulders to relax, took in another breath, and let it out again, opening himself to their guide.
Remon. You may enter.
Remon’s spirit hesitated, no longer self-assured. Then again, Connor had become used to being overtaken by the spirits of others. The chance to possess a living being and, for a time, experience his body as one’s own was not common, and Remon might have needed a few seconds to figure out how to go about doing that.
Hurry, Connor urged. We head deeper along Torven’s Spine every second.
Remon’s ghost came at Connor in a rush, slipping through his skin. Connor jerked, stiffening at the abrupt possession, and he gasped as a long-dead man reveled in the half-forgotten senses of a living body.
Remember, you have a job to do, Connor cautioned.
Zaryae was watching him worriedly, but she did not touch him or move to block his path as Connor walked toward Whitney and the ship’s wheel. For a moment or two, Remon’s consciousness felt besotted with the onslaught of sight, touch, and sound. He nearly lost his footing, grabbing at the ship’s rail as he struggled to adjust to control a flesh-and-blood body after such a long time.
“I’m… all right.” The voice that came out of Connor’s mouth had his tone but not his inflection, speaking the Common tongue with a Cross-Sea accent. “I am… Remon.”
“Nice to meet you, Remon. Now get your ass over here and guide me through the sea mountains before we all end up at the bottom,” Captain Whitney snapped.
Remon dragged himself along the rail, still fastened with a rope that gave him a few feet’s distance to roam. Zaryae hung back but stayed close enough to intervene should help be needed.
Now that Remon had gathered his wits, he moved with the sure-footedness of a man used to living his life aboard ship. He glanced at the sails, assuring himself of their set.
“How exactly are you going to navigate?” Whitney challenged. “The clouds are so thick, we can’t see stars or sun.”
“By the movement of the water,” Remon replied, “and the ghosts beneath the waves.”
Whitney looked as if he had bitten into a sour apple, but he nodded. “All right. Steer me through.”
Whitney stepped back, giving Connor the wheel. To Remon, the worn wood and tug of the weight against the wheel felt as natural as breathing. All right, my brethren. Remon spoke to the ghosts that filled the ether all around them. Show me where we are.
Remon looked out at the storm-tossed seas through Connor’s eyes, and at the same time, Connor ‘saw’ the ocean in front of them through Remon’s heightened awareness. Through Remon’s ghostly perspective, the gray, wild waves became transparent as glass, and Connor could see down into the depths. Massive, black shapes jutted up from the sea floor, tall and jagged as the Riven Mountains, completely submerged except for a few places where the tallest peaks poked their highest tips nearly to the surface. Like the mountains Connor had seen on dry land, Torven’s Spine was a series of ridges varying dramatically in height, with deep clefts between. The base of the undersea mountains was lost to sight in the darkness of the abyss.
Gradually, as Connor watched through Remon’s consciousness, he saw more details emerge. It was as if he were on the ship, in his body, and simultaneously outside of the ship with preternatural senses, so that the heaving waves and crashing whitecaps became translucent to his sight and he was able to ‘see’ the ship moving to the right of a massive mountain ridge.
Remon’s hands were sure and steady on the ship’s wheel. Whitney’s expression was a fraught mix of emotions, and Connor was certain it was painful for the captain to give over control of his ship to someone who was not even a member of his crew, let alone a man claiming to be guided by a ghostly navigator. It was a supreme act of will on the captain’s part to refrain from taking back the wheel, and his fists clenched and released again and again as he fought his battle with himself.
I wish Whitney could see what I’m seeing through Remon’s senses, Connor thought. There’s no way a purely human helmsman could get us through the mountain range in a storm like this.
The ghosts of the depths moved with the Nomad, and Remon perceived them as a faintly glowing strand of light, tracing the perilous slopes and peaks of Torven’s Spine, enabling Remon to guide the Nomad away from the deadly submerged rock.
The storm is making this difficult, Remon said. This area is treacherous in good weather, but with the wind and the damaged sails, it’s almost impossible to avoid moving side to side, and the clearance in a few passes is pretty tight.
Watch out! Connor saw the peak so close off the starboard side that he might have easily poked it with a pike.
That’s what I mean, Remon replied tightly. Whitney’s hands were clenched white-knuckled, so tightly that Connor was certain the captain would have bloody nail prints in his palms. Rocks scraped against the hull, and Whitney’s face went white.
“Steady,” Remon said with a voice not exactly Connor’s. “The draft’s deep enough here despite the tight fit. If we move to avoid scraping, we’ll rip out the hull on the mountain ridge directly beneath.”
Trad and the sailors on the deck below cried out in fear as the hull scraped again. Some prayed to Charrot for deliverance, while others pleaded with Torven to assure their souls safe passage, or begged Esthrane to spare their lives.
Remon’s ghostly senses dispelled the darkness of the ocean depths, and with the help of the thousands of spirits from the Graveyard of Ships, the Nomad made careful headway through the treacherous passage.
“Halfway there,” Remon said with Connor’s voice. Zaryae moved to stand beside him, and reached up to touch his cheek with her fingers.
“You’re burning up, when it’s so cold I’m shivering,” she said worriedly. “Connor, keep track of the time. If he burns up your body, you’ll be no better off than the rest of the ghosts.”
And if I save myself and sink the ship, we’ll all join Remon and his friends—permanently, Connor thought.
He had grown accustomed, through the Wraith Lord’s possessions, to gauging how well his body tolerated the presence of its ghostly guest. Through trial and error, and no doubt helped by the Wraith Lord’s long existence and magic, he and Vandholt had reached an understanding of when Connor was approaching his mortal breaking point.
Remon had no such experience, nor did he have the Wraith Lord’s magic to buffer the strain of the possession. And while the wind whipped around them and rain pelted them, Remon was reveling in the sensations even as Connor’s body shuddered with cold and simultaneously burned from inside.
You’re taking a toll on him, the Wraith Lord warned. Don’t dally.
I don’t dare move faster, unless you want to end up with a smashed hull, Remon shot back. I’ve gotten us this far. Trust me to get us out. Then you can have your precious servant back.
Through Remon’s senses, Connor watched the Nomad make its slow progress through the perilous mountain passes. From what he could make out, thanks to their ghostly guides down below, the problem lay not in the main slopes and peaks of Torven’s Spine but in some of the lesser outcroppings that jutted out to narrow the channel.
By
now, Connor was feeling the strain of the possession. Though Remon handled the wheel with practiced confidence, Connor was growing light-headed. The combination of fever and chills sent his body into momentary spasms that were growing in duration and intensity, causing his teeth to chatter badly and his body to go rigid and tremble.
I can’t contain you much longer, Connor said.
We’re almost through.
Connor’s grip on the ship’s wheel was all that held him on his feet, though Remon guided the wheel with utter confidence. It was growing burdensome to breathe, and Connor was certain his blood was near the boiling point. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and he was sure he could feel his blood coursing through his veins.
Beneath them, guided by the faint glow of a thousand drowned men’s spirits, Connor could see ahead of them the end of Torven’s Spine. The longer Remon remained in possession of his body, the more Connor felt a bond to those unfortunate spirits in the depths. At first, he could just make out the glowing trail they laid for Remon to follow. But now, as his union with Remon’s spirit went on, he could hear their voices once again, not an angry howl like before but the low babble of a large crowd of people all talking at the same time. Part of him was intrigued by the conversation and longed to find out their secrets, but Connor resisted the pull, knowing that to join them would be death.
More things existed in the depths of the sea than Connor had dreamed possible. As his bond with Remon grew deeper, he caught glimpses of the abyss through the perceptions of the ghosts that guided Remon. Nightmare creatures wended their way among the spirits, things with lantern jaws and vicious teeth. Corpse-pale, shapeless monsters slithered through the cold currents, eyeless and alien. Stranger things swam in the silence of the deepest waters, down in the lightless bottom of the abyss. And while the ghosts paid the monsters no mind, Connor could not pull his gaze away, equal parts horror and fascination.
“Connor! You’ve got to come back to yourself. You’ve been possessed too long,” Zaryae urged. She shook his arm, trying to get his attention. Remon was clear-eyed and alert, expertly steering the Nomad through the final section of the treacherous passage. Connor knew he was fading, and his tenuous hold on his own consciousness slipped in and out of control.
I will lend you my strength, but neither of us can sustain this forever, the Wraith Lord said. Connor felt the ancient spirit fortifying him, and across the miles, the kruvgaldur with Penhallow surged, giving Connor the strength to rally.
Just a temporary measure, Connor. We’ll need to end your bond with the ghost as soon as the Nomad clears the mountain pass.
I can hang on that long, Connor replied, willing it to be so. He knew that without the Wraith Lord, and without the additional strength he had gained from the kruvgaldur and the ritual at Mirdalur, he would have already lost consciousness, or worse.
Not much longer, he repeated to himself. Almost there. Not much longer…
“Aha!” With a triumphant shout, Remon steered the Nomad through the final, narrow section of the mountains. Twice more, the rocky outcroppings passed so close beneath the waterline that those on deck could hear them scrape against the Nomad’s hull. The sky overhead remained dark with clouds, blotting out the sun, but the driving rain had stopped and the wind, mercifully, had stopped gusting. Most of the day had passed, and the shadows had grown long with the blue glow of twilight. The Nomad sailed onward, and Connor watched through Remon’s heightened sight as the hull cleared the end of the glowing line and sailed into open water.
“We’re through!” Remon cried out, and the men on deck echoed his triumphant shout. Connor gathered the last of his strength, ready to reclaim his body and collapse. But before he could gather his will to thank Remon for his help and demand that he depart, Connor glimpsed something large and dark in the waves ahead of them.
A tanoba was waiting for them.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DO I GET A KISS FROM THE BRIDE?” BLAINE MCFADDEN teased.
“For my big brother, sure.” Mari stretched up on tiptoe to give Blaine a peck on the cheek. Blaine threw his arms around her and lifted her off her feet, and she laughed in a way he had not heard since they were children. He set her down gently and bent to kiss the top of her head, then clapped Dawe Killick on the shoulder.
“Welcome to the family—as if you weren’t already part of it,” Blaine said with a grin.
“Not something we really would have imagined a while back, huh?” Dawe said in a tone that reflected his happy surprise at the way events had unfolded.
“On the whole, I’d say we’ve done well for ourselves.” Kestel Falke McFadden strode up to them. She embraced Mari and gave Dawe a joking punch in the shoulder. “Just to warn you—Dawe snores like a cow with a bad cold. I mean, at the Homestead, you could hear him all the way out in the barn,” she added with a teasing grin.
Red-haired with green eyes, lithe and pretty, Kestel looked radiant in her sapphire gown, a dress she had borrowed from Judith.
“Come and eat. There’s plenty for everyone.” Blaine’s aunt, Judith McFadden Ainsworth, walked toward them, gesturing to the group to come to the table. She was in her fifth decade, and the hardships of the last seven years showed in her face, but sometimes when she smiled, it was possible to imagine what a beauty she had been in her youth. “Two weddings in one year! I never thought Glenreith would see such happy times again, siege and war be damned!”
Glenreith, the McFadden family manor house, showed the hard times of recent years. But tonight, the great hall was lit with candles and a bounty of food and summer flowers graced the large, worn table. Roasted lamb and braised suckling pig filled large platters, surrounded by bowls of freshly picked berries, chutney from last autumn’s apples, breads, tarts, and pastries, fresh vegetables from the garden, and tankards of ale.
Robbe, Mari’s son by her late first husband, sat in the wide window seat with a heaping plate of goodies.
“He’s worked up a good appetite,” Mari said, elbowing Dawe to look over toward where Robbe sat.
“He’s a good worker,” Dawe replied, taking some of the lamb and pig for his plate and adding some small potatoes and onions, as well as some of the pickled vegetables from the crocks. “I don’t mind having him down at the forge with me at all. He’s strong for his age, and he loves to pump the bellows.”
“Robbe adores you,” Mari said, giving Dawe’s arm a squeeze. “And so do I.”
Kestel slipped an arm around Blaine’s waist. They hung back for a moment to let the others get seated. “I wish Verran and Zaryae and the twins could have been here,” she said. “Connor, too.” Hired musicians from the village played flute, lyre, and hand drum in one corner of the great room, but at Blaine and Kestel’s wedding, Verran, Dawe, and the twins had offered their music as a wedding gift, much as they had played through many cold, dangerous nights to pass the time.
“I suspect that Verran, for one, would much rather be here than where he’s headed,” Blaine replied in a low voice that would not carry to the others, mindful of the need for secrecy.
“It’s just the beginning of the Long Dark, so the weather’s not too bad yet,” Blaine went on. “And the trip gives us an opportunity to open up trade again with Edgeland. Plus, we can warn the colonists to be prepared for unwanted guests, in case anyone from the Cross-Sea Kingdoms shows up.”
“I can’t imagine that Connor is thrilled with the trip,” Kestel said.
Blaine chuckled. “Poor fellow. No, I don’t imagine he likes the idea at all. Who would, even in the best of circumstances? And don’t forget, he barely made it to Edgeland alive, what with the Great Fire and then his ship breaking apart.”
“On the other hand, he didn’t make the trip in manacles,” Kestel observed, raising an eyebrow.
“True,” Blaine agreed, and they fell silent as they moved to join the others.
“Got three of you married off now!” Piran swaggered up, a full tankard of ale in his hand. “Not for me, thank you v
ery much. I like being a free man. Too many whores, too little time.”
“More likely, too little money,” Kestel replied with a sniff. “Honestly, Piran, you need to find a woman who’ll have you before you get old and wrinkly. Or you’ll be pestering to stay in one of our extra guest rooms like a dotty uncle.”
Piran laughed. “Nah. I just need a wench with bad eyesight. Besides, we all managed to live together at the Homestead, which was tiny compared with Glenreith. I could move into one of the rooms no one uses here and you’d never know I was even there.”
“We’d know,” Blaine observed wryly. “We’d see the servants hauling the kegs of ale up the back stairs.”
Piran snapped his fingers, as if ruing the failure of his plan. “Damn. I’ll have to work that out.” He took a swig of his ale and wiped his mouth with his hand. He was wearing his best outfit, a brocade waistcoat over black trews and a white shirt, all of which had been looted from somewhere. Even so, Piran was never going to pass for ‘respectable’ company. And Blaine was fine with that.
“Are you still bending coins to amaze the trollops?” Kestel asked sweetly. Piran, another of Blaine’s Velant allies and new Lords of the Blood, had gained extra strength from the ritual that had bound the magic.
Piran grinned. “Works every time,” he said. “Or at least, every time I have a coin to spare. Ladies love a strong man.”
“They mean how much you can lift, not how bad you smell,” Kestel said with a grin, slapping Piran on the shoulder.
“Yes, well. They can’t all marry up with a lord like you did,” Piran bantered back. “Even if we didn’t know he was a lord for six whole years, right, Mick?”
“He’s never going to let you live that down,” Kestel replied, rolling her eyes.
Blaine gave an exaggerated sigh. “Probably not. Then again, there are a lot of stories about Piran we don’t have to stop talking about.”
Shadow and Flame Page 23
