Ghosts of the Sea Moon

by A F Stewart

  Rafe tilted his head. “I didn’t take you for the superstitious kind, but you may be right. Dark things are stirring. It’s not the time for vengeance, and, whatever you believe of me, I’m not cruel.” He laid a hand on Rayla’s shoulder. “Do you think you have it in you to preserve the body and send it home to her family?”

  “I suppose. They probably deserve that mercy, even if she doesn’t.”

  The ghost sunk back to the floor, relief on her face.

  “At least she’s quieted.” Rayla smirked. “Which reminds me, if you will permit the question, Exalted One, how did your crew hear her earlier? I thought only your acolytes had that gift?”

  “Serve on my ship long enough, and the magic seeps into your bones. This world and the next start to merge.”

  “If they are even separate to begin with.”

  “What?” Her words nudged a memory in Rafe’s brain. A voice he heard a long time ago.

  “Something the Oracle said to me. That the world of the living and the word of spirit are not apart, not separate. Not two places, but halves of one whole. The thought stayed with me. That we are all, living and dead, connected.”

  “It sounds like something she’d say. Beautiful and cryptic.” Rafe smiled, if only briefly. “Speaking of which, we need to honour her remains. Shall we?”

  Rayla nodded and together, along with a few others, they removed the bodies from the hall, one set for preservation and the other taken to be prepared for burial. When the pair returned to the hall they found an outraged harbourmaster complaining and waiting with his men and Rafe’s crew.

  Rafe staved off any outbursts by barking orders. “Angus! Report! Did the Jewel head to port?”

  “Aye, sir! Took the liberty of borrowing a bit of signal magic from the dockside, sir, and sent a message. The ship’s headed back.”

  “Good man. Now be so kind as to escort the harbourmaster and his men back. I expect he’d like to put things shipshape with his office and ready a place for my ship.”

  “Indeed, I would! And have a sharp word with Captain Erikson! Where is that bounder?”

  A moan from her ghost heralded Rafe’s question, “You didn’t tell him?”

  “We tried sir,” Short Davy sounded both frustrated and apologetic. “He wouldn’t let us get a word in edgewise. This is the quietest—”

  The harbourmaster interrupted. “Tell me what?”

  “Captain Erikson is dead.” Rafe had the slight satisfaction of seeing the man blanch. “And her crew sent sailing. You won’t get any more trouble from them. I guarantee it.”

  “Oh.” The man composed himself quickly. “That’s good then. Back to port. Come along men.” He whirled about and strode from the temple, his bewildered men following him.

  “Go with him, Angus, and wait for the Jewel. We’ll be along shortly.”

  With a grin, Striker Angus raced to catch up with the harbourmaster.

  Rafe turned back to Short Davy and Pinky. “The message got off to Old Town? The rest of the acolytes are all right?”

  The pair answered in turn, Davy speaking first. “Yes, sir. I spoke to Old Town. The Council was upset to hear what happened, and they’ll be sending people back to Blue Bay.” He turned to Rayla. “And to help here at the Temple, ma’am.” Rayla nodded her thanks.

  “A couple of your people are a bit shook,” Pinky added, “but they’re being tended to. The rest insisted to go about their duties. Even after I told them the sad news. They’re a fine lot. You should be proud.”

  Rayla smiled, and Pinky blushed, revealing the reason for his nickname.

  Amused, but sympathetic, Rafe ended Pinky’s discomfort. “You two wait for me outside. I have one last bit of business and then we’ll remove ourselves to the port before Blackthorne storms the place.”

  With snickers and an, “Aye, sir,” they ambled from the temple hall.

  Rayla’s soft voice broke the sudden quiet. “What business remains?”

  “A hard question. I dislike asking this so soon, but do you have a successor to the Oracle?”

  Rayla sighed. “A hard question, indeed, but one the needs asking.” She stared at the red blood stains on the marble floor. “The times give us no leeway to mourn, do they?”

  “No.” Sensing her hesitation, he pressed. “So, is there a successor?”

  This time she did not hedge her answer. “Yes. The new Oracle lives on Tenby Key. We will fetch her as soon as possible.”

  “Good. How old is she?”

  “She is fifteen. Young, but strong.”

  “Not ideal, but it could be worse.” He now glanced at the blood stain. “Amaratha came here when she was but six years.”

  “Yes. But she adjusted well to her new life. She is a great loss to us all. Especially at this time.”

  “Yes. She will be missed.” A shadow of sadness passed over Rafe’s face. “I wish I could stay, but...” His words trailed off with a hint of regret and discomfiture.

  “Yes, I know. The God of Souls is needed elsewhere.”

  “Yes, I—” He paused abruptly, her words triggering the memory of a forgotten task in Rafe’s mind. “There is one more thing. You’re owed an explanation regarding the portals. I—”

  “No need to explain.” Rayla interrupted with a smile. “We are aware of what happened with the Kraken, and what you did to protect the After World. As well as the unexpected battle with your sister. Such things reverberate with the Oracle.” She quirked the edge of her mouth. “You should know that.”

  “I should. Farewell, then. I’ll return when I can.”

  As he turned to leave, he heard Erikson’s voice. “What about me? Where am I to go? How do I pass to the After World?”

  Rafe faced her ghost down. “You don’t go anywhere. Any soul taken by me is marked. There will be no After World for you until I choose to let you pass. Your spirit will remain in this temple doing penance for your crime. Pray the sisters don’t decide to toss you in the sea to be eaten.”

  Rafe spun on his heel and left, the satisfying echo of her screams ushering him out, followed by Rayla’s laughter. Outside, he joined his crew, who were waiting in the garden.

  “Time to go, lads.” He brushed past them and started down the long path to the sea. His men scurried after him.

  The walk from the temple to the port passed in stifled taciturnity and weariness, Rafe brooding in his thoughts until a tentative voice asked, “Are you all right, sir?”

  Rafe looked at Short Davy in surprise. “What? Why do you ask?”

  “Well, it’s just you haven’t done something like that in a long time. Not since...” He hesitated, but only briefly. “Not since Black Axe Morgan and his pirates. So, I was wondering if you’re all right.”

  Rafe gave a small smile. “Yes, I’m fine. As well as any of us, I imagine. Thank you, Davy, for asking.”

  “That’s good. Because I think we need you, sir, with your focus solely on what lies ahead. We’re in for rough weather, I expect.”

  “Yes, we are.” Rafe glanced at his two men, stalwart and true. His burden felt lighter. “And I’m glad to have you by my side and part of my crew. You two are good men.”

  A little pride swelled in Pinky and Short Davy, and they grinned. “We’re honoured to serve, sir,” Davy replied, and Pinky nodded his agreement. Then the trio fell into a comfortable silence, knowing they were united in purpose.

  They emerged at the port to find a pacing Blackthorne with a look so grim and dark it made a soul wonder why he hadn’t besieged the town with cannon fire. He shouted the moment he spied Rafe.

  “Captain! At last! Thank the waves you’re safe!”

  Rafe grinned despite the circumstances. It was a rare thing to see Blackthorne agitated. “Yes, Blackthorne. I’m fine. How are things on the ship?”

  “At the ready and awaiting your orders, sir!”

  “Good.” Rafe swung his attention to Short Davy and Pinky. “You two go aboard and take Angus if he’s not already there. Black
thorne and I will be right behind—”

  “Captain Morrow! A word before you depart.” The voice of the harbourmaster interrupted and he hurried over to Rafe in an agitated manner. “I couldn’t let you leave without offering my heartfelt apologies. Such awful business. Terrible. I’m still in such a state over it. The whole port feels the loss. I, we, are in your debt, sir, and are profoundly sorry for the insult done to you.” His face darkened, and his voice lowered. “And the sad tragedy of course. The Oracle was a kind and brave woman. She deserved better.”

  Rafe gave him a kind smile. “I appreciate the sympathies, sir. And the apology, though you and your people did nothing wrong. You can rest assured, you all still hold my favour.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Thank you.”

  Rafe glanced at his ship. “We should depart. We have much to do.”

  “Of course, I won’t keep you further.”

  And with that, the harbourmaster took his leave while Rafe, Blackthorne, and the other men returned to the ship. A relieved but sombre crew greeted them.

  Rafe gazed at their concerned faces. “I take it you’ve all heard?”

  “Aye, Captain.” One-Eyed Anders took a step forward. “`Tis a terrible loss. Will we be staying in port for a bit? To pay our respects?”

  “I wish we could, but I’m afraid we have things that need tending to. Things that have been put off far too long. I’ve let events spiral off-kilter, but it’s time to steer back to a truer course. We set sail, boys. We’re heading out to the deep sea.”

  “What bearing should I lay in, Captain?”

  “Our destination is the Isle of Shadows. The Gateway to the Gods.” The words fell faster than a shot cannonball and hit the deck as hard.

  Sharp gasps rose on a cloud of trepidation, and more than a few crew made warding signs against their chests. Rafe ignored the reaction. Instead, he summoned his magic, dark and yawning, and sunk its power deep into the frame, the hull, and the sail of the ship. The Celestial Jewel shook and squealed, a sound almost like a laugh.

  Anders manned the wheel and navigated out of the harbour with quick ease. His hands shook on the wheel. The ship shuddered and picked up speed. Looks of consternation spread across the crew.

  “Steady, lads. It will be a fast trip, but none to worry. She near to fly now, boys, and skim the waves like a knife through butter. It’s on to the Isle of Shadows in but a few hours.”

  Anders didn’t seem pleased or mollified. “Are you sure about this, Captain?”

  “You have your orders, Mr. Anders. Take us out.”

  “Aye, sir,” came his grumbling acceptance.

  As the ship sailed from port, the angry cry of a crow echoed across the sky.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Isle of Shadows

  WITH HIS SHIP SAILING for open waters, Rafe stood at the prow, his feet firm on deck and the wind in his hair. Behind him, an unhappy crew worked but that didn’t lessen his resolve. Events had led him straight to a reckoning with his family and he couldn’t back down.

  He heard footsteps behind him and smiled. He expected him sooner. “Speak your piece, Blackthorne.”

  Rafe heard a mumble of surprise and discomfiture and then the first mate’s voice. “Are you certain of this course, sir? You know what happened last time you went there looking for help.”

  “I know, but I’m not seeking their help or approval this time. They can all be damned. This is just a formal declaration of war between me and my sister and whatever she allies herself with.” He sighed. “Besides, the last words of the Oracle before she passed to the After World bade me to seek out my father.” He turned to look at Blackthorne. “And the God of Souls cannot ignore her final words of counsel.”

  “When did she—” Blackthorne cut his question short, and an intake of breath floated past Rafe’s ear. He wasn’t certain whether it was surprise, fear, or admiration. Blackthorne then added, “They won’t like your coming, sir.”

  “No, they won’t. But they won’t stop me, either. Not after what’s happened and the ensuing consequences.”

  “Well, sir, sailing with you is never boring, I’ll say that much.”

  Rafe chuckled. “Glad to do my part to keep your life lively, Blackthorne.”

  “I appreciate it, sir”

  Rafe heard his footsteps fade away along the deck, and he was alone again. At least as alone as one could be standing on the deck of a busy ship of sailors. He heard grunts, a bit of swearing, the crank of pulleys as the sails were trimmed, voices calling out orders, and jokes and the thump and rumble of boots against the solid wood of the deck. He heard the sound of home far more so than their destination, the land where he spent most of his youth. He closed his eyes.

  I pray their coming together doesn’t blow them both apart.

  He opened his eyes, his gaze once again back on the horizon and the sea.

  THE FOG BANK CAME INTO view first. Swirling tendrils and expanded puffs of pinkish vapour gliding against the sea like a lover’s hand, caressing its surface. The diaphanous mist danced and swayed. Its contortions seeming playful, almost alive.

  “We’ve arrived.” The words rebounded to Rafe’s crew, a statement soaked in whispering awe and echo. The captain walked the deck to the wheel, laying a hand on One-Eyed Anders’ shoulder.

  “Steady on the helm from here. Magic will be guiding you in. Let it flow. Don’t fight it.”

  The man nodded. “Aye, Captain. I remember.”

  “Good man.”

  Rafe strode back to the prow, keeping an eye on the sea, watching the progress of the ship. He closed his eyes and gently siphoned off some of the magic from the Jewel. Finesse more than speed was needed now. The ship slowed her pace, steadying to a normal clip, and an overly taciturn crew manoeuvred through the fog. The air grew still, a silence fractured only by the vessel’s creaks and groans and the slap of waves. As if the collective crew held its breath waiting for the end. As if the world itself slowed, the tick of time forgotten.

  Too late to turn back now.

  Once past the miasma barrier, the ship steered into cerulean waters and sunlight-tinged clouds. The wind smelled of sweet honey and the perfect warmth of the heart of summer sashayed over the crew. Calm sea, clear and sparkling, splashed against the sides of the vessel. And, above their heads, the bluest sky kissed dancing, vaporous shapes of feathery alabaster. They sailed into a paradise.

  Yet the looming shape of the Isle of Shadows belied that notion. The great, disquieting beast of an island jutted on the horizon. A stain on the beauty. Dark and ominous, it warned away travellers, this Gateway to the Gods.

  Even at first glance, it inspired dread. Its landmass shifted like an illusion in moonlight, an obsidian hue undulating through the sun. Edges shimmered and fluttered and slid against the sea like drifting tide. An outline the eye couldn’t quite pin down. It could make a man believe in madness.

  “What’s going on? Did that island really move?” The fearful voice of Hugh broke the quiet.

  “Yes.” Rafe spoke softly to coax away the trepidation from the newest crew member. “The Isle of Shadows is constantly in motion as it vacillates between realms. Land, hills, harbours, and bays transform and disappear. It also makes heaving anchor at port difficult unless you’re invited in.”

  “And we’re going there?”

  “Aye, lad. We are.” Rafe stared at the isle with an unspoken sigh. Once his home, despite its vagaries and whims, he knew it well. He knew where to bring in his ship to hail his kin. He could feel the magic tremble under his feet, and he smiled. The Jewel would take them in. She knew.

  “Five degrees to starboard, Mr. Anders, and hold her course steady.”

  Assured his orders would be followed, Rafe walked a few steps to the rail. He took a breath and held it between the worlds for a heartbeat of infinity. When the ship glided against the right spot in the sea, he exhaled a whisper of air, followed by the murmur of a name, “Cylla.”

  The prevailing winds qua
vered in response, a scintillation of sky and a taste of laughter, and the deck of the ship rumbled. From beneath the vast turquoise waters, an unbounded whirlpool surfaced in a spray of bubbled foam and spume. Beyond it all, from the ageless void and the timeless clouds, Cylla, Gatekeeper of the Isle of Shadows, cascaded downward on a floral scent and sunbeams. She halted inches above the whirlpool, a smile on her face.

  “Welcome home, God of Souls.”

  “Still with the grand entrance I see, Cylla.”

  A trill of laughter with the cadence of silver bells fluttered across the deck and into the sails. “Of course. I love a good spectacle.” Her smile widened. “What do you want from me this day? An audience with one of your brethren?”

  He hesitated, for a brief moment, not knowing how his next words would be received. “I want entrance to the isle, Cylla. I have a declaration of war against the Moon Goddess.”

  An audible crack reverberated as if the air itself split. Waves slapped the sides of the ship and spray erupted from the whirlpool. But Cylla said nothing.

  Rafe answered her nonetheless. “Flexing your power won’t change what I need to do, aunt. My sister has gone too far this time in her madness. There are forces at play that cannot be ignored. You had to have felt the repercussions, even here.”

  “I did. And the others have been...unnerved by the ripples, this change in the balance of magic.”

  “And yet no one cared to ask what happened or why.” Rafe snorted. “Better to stay here, tucked away from any consequences. Well, this time they cannot hide. The consequences have come to them.”

  Cylla hung her head, concealing her expression, but he heard her whisper. “But war, God of Souls? Has it come to this?”

  “Yes, Cylla. It has come to war. The first salvo has already happened. The first battles have already been fought.” He let out a sighing breath. “It cannot be halted anymore one way or the other. Will you let me and mine through? Do we have entry to the Isle of Shadows?”