It took him a long time to get to sleep. In the morning, he felt hollow, weak. The streaks on his gut had darkened to a wine-like maroon. He knew they'd soon be black. Blays was already out of the cabin. Dante reached under his bunk and got out his pack containing the box of shells. It was sodden and briny. Damp from the storm, no doubt—but when he opened the bag, the lid of the box fell out. A rotting, marine stench came with it. The box had been knocked open during the jostling of the storm.
Given the smell, he didn't have to inspect the shaden to know they were dead.
He found his thinnest knife and sawed the snails loose from their shells, hoping to find a piece that had avoided the rot. Typically, the shaden's flesh was an even gray; what he dug from his shells was pale, mottled with green and black. He got a bowl, filled it with water, and washed off the least diseased-looking sections. Even after rinsing, they looked awful. He trimmed off the grossest parts, and then, after considering his options, tipped back his head and swallowed the snail whole.
Even without chewing, the taste was intensely bitter. And familiar. He'd had it before. In Winden's paste made from san root.
In the midst of trying to figure out what this meant, his stomach churned on itself like a vat of melted cheese. He barely made it to the tin pot he used for seasickness in time to catch the violent ejecta.
He did his best with the other two shaden, but couldn't keep them down, either. He was flinging the last sour bits out the window when the door opened.
"It smells like a fish's bunghole in here," Blays said, fanning the door. "Hey, are you all right?"
Dante lowered himself to his bunk. "I'm sick. Same as Larsin."
"Did you take the shaden? Like Winden said?"
"The box broke in the storm. They were no good. Hence why the smell is even worse than yesterday."
Blays closed the door. "You're sure you've got it?"
Dante lifted his shirt to show the darkening streaks. "I've tried to fix it. I can't."
"I'd tell you that it's no big deal—that Larsin was sick for weeks and weeks—but I have the feeling they made sure he wasn't getting too bad."
"That's very comforting. Makes me feel even better than when I was heaving up rotten snails a minute ago."
"I thought you would appreciate my unflinching realism." Blays made a fist, tapping it repeatedly against the door frame in thought. "Come on. We're going to see Captain Twill."
Feeling queasy and lightheaded, Dante tucked the empty shells in the box for later study, then rousted himself. Captain Twill was in her quarters and allowed them in.
She took one look at Dante and her face went as hard as the Dreaming Peaks. "Get back to your room. Right now."
"We have a decent idea what this is," Dante said. "I was summoned to the islands to help someone who had it. It didn't seem to be contagious."
"So you went to the Plagued Islands to treat someone with this disease. Which you then contracted. And you're telling me it's not contagious?"
"It's more of a…condition. And they know how to cure it."
"Which means we have to head back," Blays said. "Right now."
The captain sat behind her desk, propped her boots on it, and crossed her arms. "Can't."
Blays moved directly across from her. "I'm sorry, did I make it sound as though that was a request?"
"What's your plan, tough guy? Take me hostage? Force the entire crew to heave about?"
"Oh, I don't have a plan. Do you think that makes me less dangerous?"
A knife appeared in her hand as if summoned from the ether. Blays twitched but didn't draw a sword. Twill bounced the knife across her knuckles, then disappeared it.
"I'd turn back if I could," Twill said. "I owe you my life. Besides, I have the feeling you'd be good men to have owing me a favor in return." She winked at them, then went somber. "But we don't have the supplies. We've had to ration what we've got just to make it to Bressel. If we turned around now, could we make it back to the island? Maybe. But we wouldn't have enough to get back. And if we took on supplies there, my entire ship could get sick."
"And if something happens to Dante," Blays said, "an entire kingdom could crack apart."
"How's that? Who's he on a mission for?"
"Himself."
Her gaze shot to Dante. "You're a king? And what kind of monarch has to hire a smuggler to ferry him around rather than the royal fleet? Where do you rule, South Armpit?"
"Narashtovik," Dante said. "Northern Gask."
Twill laughed out loud. "You're that Dante?"
"And I need your help."
"Well, I don't care if you're the king of the Celeset. I'm not putting my crew to that kind of risk."
"Yeah, I was afraid you'd say that." Blays sat on the edge of her desk. "So here's my next offer. Take us back to the island. We'll figure out how to cure this thing. And when we do, we'll share the secret with you—allowing you to trade with the islands with impunity."
"Making me very, very rich. Now you're speaking my language." She wore a large silver ring on her right hand, and as she thought this through, she twisted it back and forth. "Can't do it. Out here, the only thing keeping us alive is each other. I have to bring my men in to port. Give the ones that want to leave the chance to do so. We'll resupply. Then we can go back."
"You're unbelievable. He saves your life, and when you have the chance to return the favor, you're worried about facing a few grumbles from your crew?"
"Do you really think he's the first sick man to come back from the islands? We'll take him to the ethermancers."
Dante laughed. "The same ones that were so eager to help you when you were ill?"
"They turned me away because I'm from the Collen Basin. You look as Mallish as King Charles. They'll be happy to take your money."
"And you really think they can help me?"
"They won't be able to cure you. But they'll be able to push it back. Give you enough time for the trip back to the islands."
"Sounds iffy," Blays said. "What do you think?"
Dante shrugged. "It's either that, or we keelhaul her and take her boat."
"I have always wanted a boat."
Twill rolled her eyes. "I'm right here, you know."
"You're right," Dante said. "I can't ask your men to sacrifice themselves for me. But please. When we get to Bressel, restock as quickly as you can."
She stood. "I'll start making preparations."
Dante returned to his cabin. Belowdecks, men scurried around, rearranging cargo with muffled thumps. Dante drew on the nether, sending it back into his body; if the ethermancers could treat the illness, surely he could, too. At least slow it down. Yet after an hour of the closest focus he could muster, he still hadn't found a way to touch the dark spots inside him. Would the ethermancers prove useless? Or was there something specific to the ether that allowed it to treat the sicknesses of the Plagued Islands?
He sat up in bed. The Cycle of Arawn spoke of Arawn's Mill. Initially, the mill had ground ether, the substance of the firmament and of purity, but after it had fallen and cracked, it ground nether instead—the substance of life and death, of renewal and decay. He didn't think the whirlpool was the same Arawn's Mill spoken of in the stories—the Cycle said Arawn had placed his mill in the sky, not the sea—but what if there was some connection? What if the nether drawn to the islands by the Currents had been corrupted, somehow? And could only be negated by its predecessor, the ether?
He spent the rest of the day reading the Cycle, but found nothing that seemed relevant. He woke to the smell of burned cinnamon. Heart pounding, he pulled up his shirt. The streaks had advanced to his ribs. Some had gone purple.
The day after that, they were black.
The captain sent him tea of all kinds, gathered in her manifold travels. Most were bitter or brackish. Dutifully, he drank them down. They made no difference. His body beat with a dull pain that grew more strident by the hour. Skittish shadows swam on the edge of his vision. Sometimes they seemed
to take the shape of faces, but when he tried to look at them squarely, they dissolved into amorphous limbs.
One morning, he found himself too weak to walk on his own. Blays helped him totter around the deck to take in the air. Dante shivered uncontrollably. The shadows ringing his sight were no longer skittish. They seemed to be attending him. Waiting. Eager.
The ship pitched down the back of a wave, jostling Dante from his feet. Blays grabbed his arm and pulled him upright.
"If something happens," Dante said. "Ask the Council to continue to look after the norren. At a distance, or the norren will rebuff them. You know how they are."
"I won't be telling them anything." Blays relaxed his grip on Dante's upper arm. "Except that their leader starts making funeral plans whenever he gets the sniffles."
"It's their decision as to who will succeed me. I wish to be buried next to Cally. And tell them one last thing: that you are always welcome in Narashtovik."
Blays blinked at the sea, then scowled. "We'll be in Bressel in two days. A week after that, we'll be back in the Plagued Islands. And everything will be fine."
The pain running down his spine told him otherwise, but he didn't try to contradict Blays. You couldn't soften the blow any more than you could reach up and reverse the course of the sun.
With Blays' help, he made his way back to their cabin and rolled himself into his bunk. Blays muttered something about tea and left. The ship rocked on the waves, its timbers creaking. The shadows at the edge of his vision pulsed closer and closer. The pain pulsed with them. The window was open to the sea air, but the only thing he could smell was charred cinnamon.
Bit by bit, the cabin grew dark. Was it dusk already? Then how was a shaft of sunlight shining through the window?
The shadows filled him, and he saw nothing.
* * *
He felt no pain. No pleasure, either, but the absence of his former agony felt so good he never wanted to leave it. It smelled like dust and damp straw. No cinnamon. It was dark, but the shapes in his eyes weren't moving like the shadows had. A beam of starlight glimmered through the window, painting a silvery rectangle on the opposite wall.
His heart crumpled on itself, then expanded with joy. Arawn's hill beneath the stars. He had passed to the other side. No more sickness. No more pain. No more struggle. Dizzy with wonder, he rolled onto his side and managed to stand. Shuffling his feet, he moved to the window, eyes watering as he prepared to look on Arawn.
Below him, a city slumbered in the darkness.
He wasn't on the hill beneath the stars. He wasn't on the Sword of the South, either—he was inside a jail cell.
11
He stared out in disbelief. Iron bars blocked off the window. Fifty feet below, three-story row houses crammed the streets. Torches flapped in the larger intersections. Shouts and drunken laughter echoed off tenement walls. Dante pressed his face to the bars. They smelled like drying blood. The moon wasn't up and he couldn't make out much more than the silhouettes of buildings.
Then the bells began to ring. Glass. Piercing. The Odeleon. He was back in Bressel.
As the last bell chimed, the door squealed open. Dante turned, reaching for his sword. This was gone. The nether, however, was always at hand. He bit the inside of his lip until he tasted blood to feed the shadows.
"I wouldn't do that." The man in the door was dressed in the gray robes of a priest of Taim. In his middle thirties, he was tall, with deep-set eyes and the cheekbones of a cadaver. A ball of gleaming white ether shined in his palm.
Dante let the nether retreat to the corners of the room. "Who are you?"
"Your questions will be answered depending on how cooperative you are in answering mine."
"What have I done to deserve arrest?"
"Arrest?" The tall man moved into the room. Two monks filed in behind him, one male and one female, along with a fourth man armed with a sword and a long knife. "This is quarantine. For the safety of the kingdom. Refusing to aid my inquiry will be considered a threat to the crown."
"I am happy to assist you however I can."
"And I am happy to hear that." He snapped his fingers. One of the monks produced a square wooden board, unfolding two hinged runners from its underside. He set the board on the ground. The head monk nodded at Dante, who sat across from it. His questioner kneeled before the board, sitting on his feet. From his robes, he withdrew a quill, an inkwell, a sheet of vellum, and a bottle of blotting sand. "What is the nature of your relationship to the Sword of the South?"
Dante rubbed grit from the corners of his eyes. The man's accent was neutral, neither aristocratic nor plebeian. He was clearly a monk, but wore none of the necklaces or bracelets the Mallish priests used to denote their primary god and their station within that sect.
Highly unusual. In Mallon, where the followers of eleven different gods jockeyed for the favor and respect of the court, going about your business without the signifiers of who you stood for and how important you were was akin to showing up to a battle without your sword and armor. Either this man had no interest in playing their games, or he was so highly positioned he'd already won.
"Commercial," Dante answered.
"And what was your destination?"
Dante glanced between the monk's silent entourage. "Wouldn't these questions be more appropriate for the ship's captain?"
The man made a note. "The captain is not your concern. I am."
"We were going to the Plagued Islands."
"For what purpose?"
"I was visiting family."
The monk looked up from his writing. "You are Mallish."
It wasn't a question. "I was born thirty miles from Bressel. My father, however, preferred to leave a place before his footprints could overlap themselves. In time, his travels took him to the Plagued Islands, which he wound up favoring more than me."
"Then why return now?"
"He was sick. He wanted to see me again. In case it was his last chance."
The monk stared. The irises of his eyes were such a dark gray that it appeared his pupils had swallowed them whole. "Were you able to see him?"
"When I arrived, it looked like he might not make it. He made a full recovery before I left."
"We found these in your belongings." He produced a small bag and methodically clinked the three empty shaden shells on the stone floor. "Why?"
"Because you searched my things?"
"You have one more chance to answer."
Dante suppressed a sigh. "I was given them in case of sickness."
"Are you aware of any other properties they might possess?"
"I was told to eat them. I don't think they're a cure, though, because they told me to come back right away." He raised his eyebrows. "Were you the one who helped me? If so, I owe you my life."
"You were unable to treat yourself?"
"How would I have done that?"
"When I entered, you drew on the nether."
"I've taught myself a few small things," Dante said. "But I wouldn't know where to begin to cure a disease."
The man picked up one of the shells, tracing his fingernail along its whorls. "Are you aware that the use of nether is forbidden here?"
"That's why I left. I live in the Middle Kingdoms now. I had no intention of stepping foot in your city. We were supposed to resupply, then head straight back to the islands."
"Your very presence is profane. An insult to Taim. That's why you left Mallon. Why you intended to confine yourself to your ship. Yet you came to Bressel despite your knowledge that you're not welcome here. Do you think you should be excused because you tried to keep yourself only mildly blasphemous before our father?"
"It was a matter of survival," Dante said. "I believed that if I showed the proper humility, Father Taim would show mercy."
The man scratched out another note, keeping his eyes locked on Dante's. "Why would he show mercy to someone who disobeyed his commands? You chose to learn the nether. It should come as no surprise that thi
s sin has cost you your life."
He rose with a whisper of cloth. The male monk folded away the small table. The female monk opened the door and they filed outside. The door closed with a bang. On the other side, a bolt rammed into place.
Dante put his ear to the door. Footsteps rustled down the hall. The cadaverous man had come to him mere minutes after he'd awakened. Were they watching him? The cell appeared empty—it contained no more than a pail and a pile of straw for sleeping—but the monk was an ethermancer. Dante bit his lip again and relaxed his eyes, scanning the cell for any trace of ether.
Finding no sign of surveillance, he sent the shadows within himself. The darkness that had been spreading across his body had been reduced to specks. As Captain Twill had predicted, they hadn't cured him. They'd merely reset the sickness' course.
He moved to the window. Where was he being held? Not the palace; he saw no walls beneath him. Couldn't see the Chanset River, either, yet the ringing of the Odeleon had come from the east. The cathedral was on the west bank of the river, which placed him even further west. In a high tower. That left one option: they were holding him in Chenney Hall. This was no debtor's prison or common jail. You only saw the inside of the Chenney if you had personally offended the court—or the gods.
He knew where he was. And that he was in trouble. If he was careful, and waited till the middle of the night, he'd probably be able to open a hole through the wall and sneak downstairs.
But if they'd taken him, he had no doubt they'd taken Blays, and probably Captain Twill as well. He had no idea how long he'd been out. If Blays knew where he was being held, and Dante fled the Chenney, they'd have little hope of finding each other.
There was one thing he knew for sure: Blays wouldn't leave him behind.
Softly, he began to sing out the window, an old drinking tune they'd learned years earlier while hiding from fanatics in the pubs of Whetton. He'd barely made it through the second chorus when he felt a ripple in the darkness.
The Red Sea Page 15
