Spirit of the Sea

by Keith Walter

  Something sparked in the back of his mind. It was a technique he’d picked up years ago: whenever something seemed too complicated to work out, you just needed to change your focus for a while and let your subconscious take the reins. All the little oddities, the omitted truths, and peculiar situations webbed together into something coherent.

  Walking out to the bow, Barclay pushed all the thoughts away and just focused on the water around him. The wind and waves fed a yearning somewhere deep inside him. He didn’t bother hiding the bluish tone his skin took on as he relaxed in his element. Turning away from the lake took a good look at the yacht that had saved them all. The white paint shimmered in the evening sun as the radar spun lazily on its mast. A thought jumped into his head as he raced back into the bridge.

  Grace was not what she claimed, not exactly, and this realization brought a swell of hope to his chest. If he was right, they might have an entirely new hand to play. He took a quick look at the GPS and referenced it with his understanding of the black market. It was risky—insanely so if he was wrong. But if he was right, it was the kind of real plan he’d been scrambling for all this time.

  With renewed vigor, Barclay reprogrammed the ship’s destination and ran out of the bridge. He didn’t slow until he was in the belly of the ship, standing outside Grace’s strange doorway once again. His face perked up as the elaborately carved wooden door in front of him opened. Grace was clearly surprised to find him outside her door, and he held a finger to his lips in a sign of quiet. She nodded, looking back at Charles once before closing the door behind her. “I need your help,” he stated.

  “What can I do?” she inquired.

  “For starters, you can come clean with me,” he replied seriously.

  “I…um… What do you mean?” Grace asked, guilt evident.

  “You aren’t just some fey that got locked up, are you?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “You don’t just happen to know repair magic, and you don’t just happen to know a lot about this boat. And these engines didn’t just happen to stop when Charles jumped overboard.”

  “No,” she whispered.

  Barclay waited for her to admit it, but found silence instead. “A water sprite would only be able to fix what was broken, not create brand new screens and clothing from scratch,” he declared. “You are this ship.”

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  Barclay pinched the bridge of his nose. “C’mon, kid, why not just tell me? This changes everything, and in a good way.”

  “I…didn’t want people to think differently of me,” she replied. “I am fey, but also…not. The others—they were so nice, and so welcoming, so quick to treat me as one of their own. I didn’t want them to feel scared of me.”

  “Kid, you are one of a kind, that’s for sure.” He sighed, trying to refocus. “I take it my chicken scratch isn’t really the reason we’ve stayed hidden so far?”

  “Well…I have my own camouflage runes.” Grace held up her hands suddenly. “Not that yours weren’t also good.”

  “Sheesh.” Barclay rolled his eyes. “You’re trying to spare my feelings when I already told you I thought they wouldn’t work. Look, I need to know just how strong you are.”

  Grace tapped her chin, thinking. “I have been locked away for a long time and am not recovered. I am not sure what I am capable of.” She eyed Barclay seriously. “But I won’t fight. I won’t harm others.”

  Barclay looked away momentarily. He’d expected that, if he was honest. Even if she had power in spades, wielding it against another living thing wasn’t easy. Diverting the conversation, he motioned toward the engine room door. “I noticed the hallway was different from the last time I was down here, wider.”

  Grace smirked. “I had some trouble getting through.”

  “How much of that can you do?” he asked.

  Grace cocked her head to the side, raising one eyebrow. “You mean the hall?”

  Barclay shook his head and gestured all around with his arms. “Could you do a complete makeover?”

  “I suppose,” she started, tentatively, “but it would take a great deal of magic, and I don’t think I could hold the camouflage runes at the same time.”

  He considered his options. Grace was still an unknown to the Union. Hell, he hadn’t even known about her the entire time she had been on the docks. She was an ace up their sleeves, and it wouldn’t be very useful to show their whole hand now. Only one option, then. “Fine,” he said, “where are the runes?”

  “On the hull, near the bow. But why?”

  Barclay ignored the question, responding with his own. “Do you think you could pull them close enough to the deck that somebody could touch them?”

  Grace paled momentarily. “I don’t…I don’t think that would be a wise idea, Mr. Barclay. They are very powerful runes.”

  Barclay hid a smirk and tried to force his words out in mock aggravation.“Are you calling me weak, kid?”

  “No!” she cried, waving her hands across her vision. “I didn’t mean to imply that. I just… It’s not…”

  A hand appeared in front of her, quieting her protests. “Look,” Barclay began, “I know enough about your kind to know you are out of my league.” He smiled at her. “I’m just teasing ya, kid. I’m sure if it came to raw power, you’d dwarf the lot of us, and I’m sure that’s exactly why we’ve managed to stay safe so far.”

  Grace looked down at her feet, seemingly unsure how exactly to respond to the truth. She rubbed her hands together, speaking softly. “The sea holds great power.”

  That, Barclay knew better than most. It’s why he lived in a shack on the docks, why he never liked to be far enough away from water that he couldn’t see cool blue on the horizon. It’s why he felt stronger now, sailing a big pond like Erie, than he had since the war. He locked eyes with Grace, staring through the humanlike shell to the well of power behind her green eyes. For several seconds, he let the roll of the waves outside feed his being, letting her see the ebb and flow of blue glow surrounding his pupils. He could tell the moment she understood that he felt the sea like she did. He calmed himself. “Don’t underestimate me.” He let the glow fade. “Besides, I’m not foolish enough to think I can do it on my own. We have three unwitting volunteers that are going to help.” He pointed toward the bunks like her own outside the engine room.

  Her eyes followed his finger, and realization dawned on her as she felt the energy of three more pureblood passengers. “Oh!” she cried. “Yes, that could work.” She turned back to Barclay. “I can move the runes just up to the deck on the bow.”

  “Good,” he replied. “Let’s go, then.” He didn’t wait for a reply, walking back through the engine room. He moved quickly, listening as Grace scrambled to catch up. He slowed his walk through the hall, allowing her to match pace at his side. As they neared the end, Barclay motioned up the stairs to the main deck. “Why don’t you get a head start and move those runes. I’ll grab our volunteers.”

  Grace practically leapt up the steps. “Of course. I’ll meet you there!”

  Barclay turned to his left. The girls would be easy, so might as well get them out of the way first. It wasn’t ideal to grab Serin so quickly—he remembered how drained she had looked just a little while ago—but there was little choice. He lifted his hand to knock, but hesitated as he reached out to verify both their energies were in the room. The room had two beds (all the rooms did as far as he had seen), but he felt both energies occupying nearly the same space. Odd, he thought. Regardless, he let his knuckles fall against the door twice. He felt one energy spike before quickly leaping to the other side of the room and settling.

  “Come in, Mr. Barclay,” Leslie’s voice called out.

  Why move at all if she wasn’t going to open the door, Barclay thought. He pulled the handle until he heard a click, then pushed the cabin door inward. It wouldn’t do to act irate, but he couldn’t help asking, “What are you doing?”

  Leslie’s cheeks colored slightly, but quick
ly faded under a forced calm. “I was just resting for a bit. Serin mentioned we are headed for land and I thought to be ready for whatever needs to be done.”

  Barclay took in the perfectly made bed under the woman’s rear. It clearly hadn’t been slept in, and based on the creases in the blanket around her, this was probably the first time it had even been touched. He glanced over at the sleeping Serin. Her bed was a mess, and she was completely uncovered by blankets on the near side, as if the ends had been flung up and over. “I need you on deck. I want you to ask your family to stay in their rooms for about twenty minutes, and then meet me outside at the front of the ship.”

  “Okay.” She stood up immediately. “What are we doing?”

  He couldn’t help but like her attitude—straight to the point. “We need to be incognito by the time we get in—” he smiled thinking about it “—and little Grace is gonna put on a bit of a show.”

  Leslie didn’t appear to appreciate vague directions, but seemed interested nonetheless. She moved to push passed Barclay, only to find him blocking the way, pointing at the other bed. “What?” she asked.

  He continued pointing at the other occupant in the room. “Wake up your bond. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

  Leslie’s face froze, her muscles visibly stiffening. “My what?” she managed to choke out.

  Barclay clarified casually. “Your bond, your wife, your lover, whatever you call each other.” He watched the young woman’s face contort in shock, heat rising to her cheeks. He continued before she bothered to deny it. “I need both of you to help with the plan.” He then backed out of the room and pulled the door closed in one motion. He didn’t want to deal with whatever excuse she had for occasions like this.

  It dawned on Barclay then why these two purebloods would feel so much in common with a pack of converts. So strange; he was old enough to remember, before the war, how things like that weren’t even worth talking about, much less hiding. Of all the ills the Union eventually brought, engendered hatred for non-breeding fey was perhaps the most pointless.

  Well, they’d get up and on their way eventually. That meant just one more volunteer to conscript. Barclay closed his eyes and let his awareness drift around him. His eyes shot upward, pinpointing the only magical presence taking no care to hide. Were Grace not hiding the lot of them herself, that idiot would be broadcasting their location like a radio tower. That wasn’t entirely fair, he considered as he took the stairs up to the main deck. Those part of the most powerful clans were violently committed to strength. It determined who was promoted, whose word mattered, and sometimes even who was allowed to be born. They had to broadcast their strength at all times just to validate their status.

  While such displays mattered little to most purebloods, it did make those of name and status particularly well suited to a military hierarchy. When the war broke out, they were the organizational backbone of all battle and strategy. Clans already had long histories of cooperation; not to mention, their ranks were accustomed to leadership positions and they fell in line easily behind superiors. Of course, they were also quite reticent to accept anyone outside their class as equals (much less superiors). Barclay had fought to prove himself for nearly two decades before those in charge had no choice but to recognize his ability. Still, all those going back to their high-class lives seemed more than happy to forget him the moment the war ended.

  Trudging around the edge of the main deck, Barclay flicked his eyes toward the dining area. Relief, joy, even satisfaction played across the many faces eating together. The whole group was chatting, perhaps oblivious to the real danger they were all still in. Men and women threw jokes across tables, smiling and laughing heartily. It was a pleasant sight, honestly. These people were more than soldiers forced to tolerate one another in the mess hall, they were a family.

  Barclay peevishly realized Talmer wasn’t among the crowd. He stopped momentarily to pinpoint the location once again, eyes darting upward. He growled as he realized Talmer was on the bridge. Rushing now, Barclay ran down the deck and pulled himself back up the ladder leading to the outer walkway. Talmer was clearly visible through the bridge windows, plainly searching, but keen not to touch anything. Barclay slowed deliberately, gathering himself as he walked around to the door at the back. With each step, he let go of the restraining spells hiding his presence.

  By the time he reached the door, Barclay was broadcasting more than half his true power. And upon entering the bridge, he noticed Talmer standing straight-backed, staring at his entry. “I don’t remember inviting you to the bridge,” Barclay said.

  Talmer narrowed his eyes as he felt Barclay’s power continue to rise. In moments, it was greater than his own. Naturally, Talmer pulsed his own magic outward, quickly peaking near his own maximum as to let the older man know just who he was dealing with. But the rise in the older man’s magic never ceased, steadily closing the gap between them before rising above Talmer once again. And it didn’t stop, slowly eclipsing the younger fey even at his maximum. Barclay’s power leveled well enough above Talmer that the young man was forced to lower his eyes and bow his head minimally. “I…apologize, good sir.”

  Barclay immediately began suppressing his power and replacing his camouflage spells. The point had been made, and even with Grace covering everyone, broadcasting himself like that left him feeling naked. “What are you doing up here?” As his magic subsided, he noticed Talmer felt comfortable enough to meet his eyes again.

  With the manner of a man raised under the rigid rules of social obligation, Talmer held himself perfectly straight while managing to cut a half circle in front of him with one arm. He spoke in smooth, dulcet tones, “I sought to procure some mechanism for communication.” His arms flowed around to clasp behind his back. “As I previously informed you, I am the son of the duke of Volget. I am quite sure this entire situation would be remedied if I were able to inform him of the injustice that has taken place.”

  “Eighth son, wasn’t it?” Barclay took small pleasure in the twitch Talmer couldn’t quite hide behind those carefully crafted manners.

  “Indeed. My father is highly influential. Not only does he rule in Volget, but Volget is the leading supplier of arms to the Union high command. Those…grunts—” Talmer nearly spat the word “—with the audacity to imprison me will surely be stripped of their ranks and punished severely.”

  Barclay pondered the implicit offer. Were this boy correct, it would certainly be valuable to have a powerful ally. If everything went well, perhaps Volget could even represent a new home when all was said and done. Then again, this boy clearly had no idea just who was behind his capture. If Talmer was telling even a lick of truth, that meant he was registered, the Union knew who he was, and they had brought him to those docks on purpose. So, either his crime was so great the punishment was immutable, or else nobody back in Volget was really going to miss him. “Tell me, son of Volget, why exactly did those grunts arrest you in the first place?”

  Talmer’s anger shone brightly, though he tried to keep his face calm and pleasant. “A case of mistaken identity, it would seem. By order of the duke, I was attending the Vallisarian Vaults to withdraw funds for a venture in the east. I had confirmed my identity to the witless clerk but, instead of being shown to my vault, I was accosted by ten guards.” Talmer brought his right arm around, with a flat palm and fingers bent toward his chest. “They accused me—me—of common thievery. I was dragged out of Vallisarian like some petty pickpocket, in front of men with whom I have had business dealings!”

  Barclay considered the implications. It would make little sense for Talmer to actually be some common thief. He was too well bred, and no thief would keep up the high-class charade in the middle of an escape. A real duke’s son would kill himself before sinking to the level of a common criminal. A real thief also wouldn’t be stupid enough to give away his position by making a call inland while being pursued. No, Talmer was almost surely telling the truth, or at least as much of it as he
knew. Still, Barclay had to know. “I’m sure you presented your identification, though, after they incarcerated you.”

  Talmer’s demeanor finally cracked, and his hands began flying in small gestures with every word. “They refused to verify my identity! Even when I demanded to see their supervisors, when I told them my identity had already been confirmed by Vallisarian!” He caught himself, embarrassed at the outburst. “I was thrown in a transport and denied inquiry to the local incarceration chambers.”

  “And then you were thrown in with the lot on the ship here?” Barclay asked.

  “Yes.” Talmer managed to pull himself back into a straight position, clearing the emotion from his face. “I was forced into the rear of a storage vehicle, which is where I met maidens Leslie and Serin.”

  “Did they tell you anything about how they ended up there?” Barclay was pretty sure he had pieced together Talmer already. The Union was deadly efficient, and dropping off this young man with the rest of their cargo was no coincidence. Neither, for that matter, was the fact that guards seemed to be waiting at a respected vault just to snatch this man. The upper class wouldn’t stoop to simple theft or violence, but framing a rival and paying authorities to take them out of the picture was right up their alley. Someone in Volget really didn’t like Talmer, and they were powerful enough to get the military to do their dirty work. For all Barclay knew, it was the kid’s father—maybe Talmer wasn’t strong enough or clever enough, or maybe the old man just wanted to consolidate the family. Regardless, no communication to Volget was going to be safe.

  Talmer smiled, showing off perfectly straight white teeth. “The ladies were rather quiet, but I can hardly blame them.” He inclined his head, as if tipping a cap. “I imagine they had not met such a powerful man as myself before. I did hear some discussion from the converts, however. I gather the ladies may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time—something for which I hold great sympathy.”