by Traci Chee
Even Jaunty, normally so taciturn, took to the dance floor, jigging and hopping and clicking his heels as everyone else whooped and cheered him on.
Haldon Lac wanted to dance with everyone, taking turns with Frey and Keon and Scarza and Doc. He even tried dancing with the chief mate, who crossed his arms and stood, unmoving, at the edge of the dance floor while Lac spun and kicked up his feet, completely oblivious or completely unconcerned.
Late into the night, they danced and talked and sang, until at last they all crowded the rails, where Keon, who had placed a flower crown in his sun-streaked hair, had stashed crates of fireworks for them to launch into the air—exploding into the shapes of chrysanthemums and stars, sparks raining down on the water of Blackfire Bay in dazzling showers of light.
But morning was coming, and eventually, they had to retire. The crew of the Current began to clear away the remains of the party while the others stumbled down the gangway, some wearing leftover flower garlands like scarves, mumbling sleepy farewells.
Back on the Brother, Sefia and Archer collapsed in a tangled heap on their bunk, where they halfheartedly shucked off their shoes and clothes, crawling under the blankets as the darkness softly closed about them.
Sefia was already half-asleep when she felt Archer curl up against her. “Stay with me,” he murmured, laying his head on her chest.
Protectively, her arm went around him. “Always,” she whispered.
* * *
• • •
At dawn the next day, they reported to the watchtower. To the east, the sun was rising over Braska, the light descending over the black volcanic slope, flashing on the windows of the castle, the slanted rooftops, the walls, the soldiers in the harbor. Below, the Resistance was arrayed on the water: the rebel redcoats, with Lac and Hobs among them, beside the Lonely King’s White Navy; the ebony Rokuine ships; and the outlaws, speckled every color of the rainbow, from the red of the Brother to the gold of the Crux.
And on the western horizon—the Alliance. Fleet after fleet, they came. There didn’t seem to be an end to them.
Sefia squeezed Archer’s hand. Even with all the preparations the Resistance had made, she didn’t know how they could possibly withstand the united force of the four larger kingdoms.
On the flagpole in the center of the tower, the Black Navy soldiers raised a flag. The Alliance is coming.
Beneath it, they raised two more to communicate the number of blue ships and their distance from shore.
All along Blackfire Bay, the Resistance signaled their understanding.
That they were gravely outnumbered.
That they might die.
Sefia shivered in the morning wind. She may have been the child of an assassin and the most powerful sorcerer the world had seen in years. She may have been deadly. She may have been formidable.
But she was also just a girl who loved a boy, and she was frightened.
After Nin died, she’d closed herself off. She told herself she’d done it to protect other people from getting hurt, but now she knew she’d done it to protect herself.
If you don’t love anyone, you don’t get hurt when they’re taken from you.
But Archer had changed her. Archer had cracked her armor, and now she loved so, so many people.
She loved Captain Reed and the chief mate and Meeks and the crew of the Current.
She loved Scarza and the bloodletters.
She loved Adeline and Isabella.
Some of them were going to die that day, and she didn’t think she could endure any more loss.
So she looked up—at you, the reader—and she begged.
Please, she thought, stop reading. If you stop now, the battle doesn’t begin. If you stop now, the war doesn’t end. If you stop now, fate doesn’t get him.
He can live, if you let him.
Watch. I’ll even finish the story for you, right now.
Gently, the reader closed the book, and they all lived out their days together—thousands of moments of joy and rage and heartache. They had years—no, decades—of arguments, meals, songs, and adventures beneath the revolving skies. They weren’t always happy, because who is? They had their problems, like anyone else. But they loved each other, and they had a lifetime to learn what that meant.
You don’t see how it ends. Because it doesn’t end. The story goes on and on and on, forever, and they live. They all live.
As long as you don’t turn the page.
CHAPTER 36
Through the Storm
Captain Reed was awake before the sun. On the main deck, Jaunty was already in place at the helm, while Cooky and Aly bustled about in the galley, clattering pans and stoking the cast-iron stove. In the workshop, Doc and Horse leaned against his workbench, his broad hands tenderly cradling her face as she kissed him.
Reed climbed out onto the bowsprit. He stood there for a moment, listening to the swells knocking softly against the Current’s green hull.
They would be at the front of the battle, the Resistance’s first line of defense, arrayed at the western entrance of Blackfire Bay with a curious combination of allies: white Delienean vessels, rebel redcoats, the Rokuine Navy, and outlaws of every stripe and color.
Behind him, on the eastern horizon, the sun was emerging from the sea as if from a crucible of molten gold. In the dawn light, Roku’s volcanic slopes were dotted with white.
The end of dandelion season.
Today, the water murmured. Today, today, today . . .
He chewed his lip and blinked tears from his eyes.
So this was it—the last day he’d ever see, the last battle he’d ever fight, the last adventure of Cannek Reed. He’d do it for freedom and the outlaw way. He’d do it for his crew. For Archer. And the promise of adventures to come . . . for someone else, if not for him.
The crew began to stir, grabbing bowls of breakfast and mugs of coffee from Cooky and Aly. Sitting atop the empty pigpen, Marmalade plucked out a tune on Jules’s mandolin. It was an old melody, familiar to outlaws everywhere, though now she played it slow and in a minor key, like an unrequited love. Beside her, Theo adjusted his spectacles and began to hum in his lovely, haunting baritone. One by one, the others began to hum along.
Reed knew the words, though no one was singing. He felt them in his bones.
In the past, we were forced to abide by the rules,
But the law ain’t a life, so we struck out on our own.
Free as the wind, with the salt on our skin,
We answer to the sea and to the sea alone.
No kings! That’s the outlaw way.
No land! We struck out on our own.
We answer to the sea and to the sea alone.
They said, “This is your home, so you bow to the throne,”
And they said we’d be safe if we fell in line.
But the line tied us down, so we broke from the crown.
Now each day is full of danger and that suits us fine.
No kings! That’s the outlaw way.
No land! We struck out on our own.
We answer to the sea and to the sea alone.
We’re sailin’ through the storm.
We’re ridin’ every wave.
We’re livin’ for today.
’Cause that’s the outlaw way.
’Cause that’s the outlaw way.
“Will they live?” the captain asked.
And the water replied: They live, they live . . .
“All of them?”
The water was silent.
“Too much to hope for, I reckon.” He sighed. “Do me a favor, will you? Protect them? When I’m gone?”
The sea slapped the hull of the Current, misting him with spray, and faintly, he heard the answer: I will.
Captain Reed tipped his hat to the water that had been his h
ome, his guardian, his love, and jumped down from the bowsprit.
He joined the chief mate where he stood alone, fondly patting the rail.
The mate’s dead gray eyes flicked toward him. “Is it today?” he asked.
Reed nodded.
Only the slight shifting of the mate’s deeply chiseled features betrayed his dismay. They both knew: Reed would die with the Executioner in his hand as the ship exploded beneath him.
“You want me off the Current?” Reed asked.
The chief mate’s face went impassive again. “Don’t be stupid.” Giving the rail a last tap, he clasped Reed’s hand. “And don’t take the rest of us down with you.”
“I won’t.”
The mate gave him a grizzled smile. “I know.”
As they parted, there was a cry from one of the fighting tops: “Flags on the watchtower!”
Reed glanced up. On the nearest cliff, where Sefia and Archer would be watching the battle, the soldiers had raised three flags.
One to tell them the Alliance was in sight.
A second to tell them how many ships the Alliance had brought.
A third to tell them how far away they were.
On the captain’s orders, the crew leapt into action, preparing the Current of Faith for war. The chief mate stood, still as a pillar, in the center of the ship as the outlaws swirled around him like currents in a maelstrom. Meeks, however, was in constant motion, running this way, shouting, tying down a cannon before springing up again and cracking a joke. From belowdecks came the hammering of Horse and his assistants as they reinforced the shutters. Along the rails, Cooky and Aly checked the rifle racks while Theo and Marmalade’s strong voices led the sailors in hoisting up the anchors.
The Alliance was drawing closer. The sun was climbing higher. And the water was turning that fierce blue Reed loved so dearly.
It was a good day to go.
On the watchtower, they raised another flag—emerald green, for the Current of Faith.
Go.
Now.
Seeing the signal, the crew of the Current—his crew—looked to him. If he were another captain, he might have made a speech. But he was Cannek Reed, and his strength was in deeds, not in words. So he looked from one to another—the mate and Meeks and Horse and Doc and Jaunty, Cooky and Aly and Theo and Marmalade and Killian and all the dozens of other sailors under his care and command.
And he said, “We ain’t all gonna make it to sundown, so those of us who live, remember the ones who don’t. And those who die . . . make your last day worth remembering.”
They let out a roar. A final call—We were here.
Then the Current of Faith set sail—a lone green leaf on the blue water, leaving the rest of the Resistance line behind, the multicolored ships shrinking as the wall of the Alliance loomed larger and larger before them.
When they were almost in range, Jaunty cried, “Wind’s right!”
The mate nodded at Aly, who went scampering into the great cabin, reappearing with the Thunder Gong clutched in one hand and Dimarion’s mallet in the other. She skidded to a stop in front of Reed, her braids falling over her shoulders.
They were going to summon a storm. The high winds and rough waters would stop some of the Alliance before they reached Roku, culling their numbers so the Resistance would have a better chance.
They hoped.
“Think it’ll work, Cap?” Aly asked as he took the ancient instrument.
Ahead, he could see the Alliance gun crews loading their cannons.
“Probably shoulda given this a test run, huh?” he said with a nervous laugh. “Oh well. Too late for regrets.”
“Hard to starboard!” Jaunty cried suddenly. On his signal, he and Killian threw themselves against the helm.
The captain began to count: One, two, three, four . . .
The ship groaned. The masts swayed.
. . . five, six, seven . . .
The Current of Faith turned to run.
“Eight,” Reed whispered. He raised the gong, his gaze traveling over the verdigris, rough under his hands . . . and he struck it with the mallet Dimarion had fished out of that maelstrom over six years ago.
The sound was a crash, a roar, a drumming of war.
As the Current began to race back to the safety of the Resistance line, a storm gathered overhead.
The air went chill and dark.
At the wheel, Jaunty cast a glance over his shoulder, laughing madly as clouds coiled out of the sky like black knots, twisting and churning, laced with lightning.
Thunder clashed overhead.
“Been nice knowin’ you all!” Reed whooped as the storm closed in around them like curtains drawing on a performance.
The wind tore at their rails. The waves heaved. Torrents of water rained from the sky, drenching them all in seconds. Lightning flashed over and over, illuminating the green ship, the turgid sea, the warships behind.
The rest of the Resistance was little more than a smudge in front of them as the crew of the Current fought the storm—Jaunty at the helm and the sailors on the yards, tying and lashing, trying to harness the screaming wind.
Behind them, lightning speared an Alliance battleship, cracking it like an egg. Strikes caught two more ships, flames devouring their masts and drenched sails.
Reed clung to the rail, cackling, as they charged out of the storm, leaving it roiling behind them, and rejoined the Resistance. Wrestling the helm with all his stringy strength, Jaunty spun the ship again, and they came about to face the distant clouds, hovering just out of range, a curling black wall with lightning flashing in its depths.
But out here, only a faint breeze and the rumble of thunder reached them.
“It worked!” Dimarion bellowed from the deck of the Crux. “All those years of enmity, and look what havoc we could have been wreaking together!”
Laughing, Reed waved his hat at him. The crew of the Current cheered.
Then there was a growl of thunder, like a warning, and the blue beasts of the Alliance began to emerge from the storm, trailing black clouds like smoke.
There were gaps in the enemy line. As planned, the storm had taken some of them.
But not enough.
Iron began raining down around the Current. Cannonballs screamed through the air, making geysers of water erupt all around them.
And at the front of the charge was Serakeen’s flagship, the Amalthea, with her three cycling guns—fast and relentless.
Bullets peppered the Current as Reed and his crew took cover behind their reinforced bulkheads. Splinters showered them. But the timbers held.
Shielding his eyes, Reed found his steward crouched behind the gunwale. “Aly!” he cried. “Think you can take out the crank on one of those guns?”
She glanced at the cook beside her. They touched knuckles in their special handshake. “On it, Cap.” There was the click of a rifle.
A second’s pause as Serakeen’s guns continued to bury them in fire.
Then Cooky broke out from behind the rail, offering Aly covering fire.
With breathtaking accuracy, she stood, sighted, shot.
Aboard the Amalthea, one of the cycling guns shuddered and stopped.
“Good shot, Aly!” Cooky crowed as they ducked down again.
“Gun crews, ready!” Reed shouted.
They scrambled to their posts.
“Aim!”
But they were forced to take cover again as the second of the Amalthea’s cycling guns let loose, spattering them with bullets.
Gritting his teeth, Cooky popped up from behind the bulkhead and loosed two shots, taking out the soldiers on the second gun. The light flashed on his earrings. He grinned.
The Current’s gun crews sprang into action again.
But before Reed could give the o
rder to fire, there was a sharp crack.
Cooky fell, his rifle trapped beneath him.
Bloodied lips and unseeing eyes.
Crying out, Aly dropped to her knees, her fingers feeling for a pulse.
Reed watched them for a moment, and when he looked up, he stared down the oncoming Amalthea with cold rage.
“Fire,” he said.
“Fire!” Meeks shouted.
The deck shuddered as the cannons roared. In the smoke, Reed knelt beside Aly. He closed the cook’s eyes.
And as the Amalthea’s cycling guns started up again, the rest of the Alliance assault began pouring around the edges of the storm.
CHAPTER 37
The Story of a Traitor
With a trembling hand, Arcadimon Detano lifted the single-dose vial to his lips. The tiny glass bottle held little more than a thimbleful of thin indigo liquid, and it was waiting for him every morning on the lacquered ebony desk in the Guard’s office in the tunnels beneath Corabel.
“Insurance,” his Master, King Darion Stonegold, had explained over four months ago as he watched Arcadimon drink the first dose. “From now on, you’ll need to take this drug once a day, every day, at dawn, or withdrawal will kill you before noon the next day.”
Inwardly, Arc had shuddered, but he’d affected nonchalance. “And I suppose the only way I get my doses is from you?” he’d asked.
“Tolem will deliver it to the Corabelli Branch each morning in time for your draught. But if you step out of line again . . .” Darion’s voice had trailed off, for he didn’t need to finish the threat.
Each morning, the Apprentice Administrator delivered the drug.
After Tolem was killed, the Master Administrator delivered it himself, sometimes waiting until Arc drank it to slink back to the ruined Main Branch.
