The Rising Tide

by Sarah Stirling

  “There’s someone here to see you. Someone from your clan.”

  A hand pressed down on her sternum, squeezing out the air in her lungs. She gasped, trying to draw breath but she found she had forgotten how to make her body function.

  “Rook-ka?”

  She waved her away. “Who is it? What did they say?”

  “I do not know. All I know is he refused to leave without seeing you. He said – he said your father knows you have returned.”

  The image of her father’s stern face in her mind triggered an instinctive reaction. She could see the confusion flit over Lyttah’s face as her expression fell from her face, boxing up her emotions and storing them away. “Take me to him. I will speak with him.”

  “I do not think Drakkun-shai wishes you to –”

  “I do not care what he thinks.” Her voice was flat.

  Lyttah twisted to stare at her as they stalked through the fortress, Rook aiming for the courtyard at the entrance. If one of her clan had come they would be detained there until a decision was made on what to do. More than likely, he would be sent away, by force if necessary. But there was no point. It was a reminder of what she had come here for; to delay it any longer was simply cowardice. Rook might have been no stranger to that but she had vowed she would stand up and face her demons. It started here and now.

  “Rook-ka, I think maybe we should –”

  “Worry not, I will be fine. Lyttah, you need not accompany me. Inform the old man that I will be returning home for a time. There are things I must do.”

  Lyttah worried at her lip with her teeth, hovering in the middle of the corridor as she glanced both ways back and forth. Rook did not look behind to check her decision as she marched back out the way she had come in, greeted with a sky the colour of decaying flesh. Before she saw him she already knew who it was going to be. The face of her biggest rival as a child. The one her father had consistently pitted her against, in the hopes she would prove her superiority over the only one who had a hope of wresting control of the clan from her.

  She could see his broad back covered by furs, pale hair stark against the gloom of this seemingly eternal twilight. With a deep breath, Rook steeled herself and took her last step through the threshold of the door.

  “Rellan laikki, Tokkar.”

  The man turned, blue eyes burning. The hint of a smile curled his lips. “and you, Rook.”

  *

  There was something about the sea that seemed to transform a person. Both Ivor and Makku had become withdrawn once they settled into the way of life aboard the ship known in Sonlin as the Storm Chaser, neither saying more than a passing comment anytime Kilai attempted to engage them in conversation. It manifested in different ways for both of them.

  As if to make up for his inability to communicate with the crew, Makku wordlessly threw himself into work, scrambling around the sails to get them prepared for the constant barrage of storms that came at this time of year. He would return below deck afterwards, sodden and heavy lidded, to simply collapse into his hammock with nothing but a grunt of acknowledgement.

  Ivor, on the other hand, appeared to avoid every living soul, spending hours at a time simply staring out at the black rolling waves whenever he wasn’t on duty. Something was missing behind his eyes, distant and opaque even when she tried to catch his attention. Whether it was the fear of keeping up a pretence, or whether his listlessness was due to his impending return to the continent, she could not tell. All Kilai knew was that it made her own uneasiness worse, watching the two of them move like a pair of ghosts around the ship, drawing looks from a curious crew.

  “Some people are just not meant for the sea,” said Nyebi, placing down a card, the sea breeze whipping at her white hair. It was growing stronger by the minute, cutting into Kilai’s skin.

  “Hm. Both are experienced seamen,” she said, scanning her own fan of cards. She could see Nyebi study her and she had to force away the instinctive tension in her body, humming as if she had trouble choosing. Her accent was hardly native, no matter how good her high Sonlin was. She had spun a story about a sailor mother who had raised her on the sea, to explain why the crew could not place the lilting cadence to her words. It was common, in a continent so vast, for a span of accents to exist across the various nations that made up the Sonlin Empire. But Nyebi was well respected amongst the crew of the Storm Chaser and Kilai knew one did not earn that kind of loyalty without merit, so wary in her company she remained.

  “Experience does not speak for the heart. You either belong to the sea or you do not,” she said.

  Sensing her impatience, Kilai placed down a card. She thought she understood the rules from her observations but she couldn’t be sure. Nyebi showed no visible reaction as her eyes roamed the barrel serving as a table between them. A long bony finger skimmed the edges of the cards, expression impenetrable.

  “And yet we are heading for uninterrupted land,” said Kilai. “What will you do when you reach the continent?”

  Nyebi tittered, eyes narrowing. “The captain and crew of the Storm Chaser do not stay stranded for long. We will continue on our orders from General Nevi.”

  Vague, but she did not say so. “The word is that General Nevi is dead.”

  Nyebi took a beat too long to react, as if thinking it over before she wrinkled her nose. “Murdered by those abominations.”

  “Abominations?”

  A card was placed besides hers. The ten of skulls outweighed the eight of coins. “These… creatures who think they are special because they are foolish enough to mess with demons. ‘Flames reborn’. Pah.”

  It took all her strength not to react, merely pausing before she placed her card down. “You do not believe it, then?”

  “Believe what? That they are some destined royals, reborn to lead the Myrliks to salvation? Please.” Nyebi shook her head, white hair spilling over black skin. “Have you not heard the stories about the Siklos? All this about how we are tyrannical when their beloved royals were the far worse evil.”

  Kilai had in fact read about the Siklo family in her varied and thorough learnings as a child. She knew about the wars waged, the enemies made. The people who had suffered beneath their rule. However, she was curious. “I do not believe I have.”

  “Those Siklos thought they were above everyone, just because they could light a few candles. They would lord over the people from their palace, uncaring for those who suffered in poverty and famine. Anyone who dare speak against them disappeared, sometimes in very public and brutal fashion. Others were burned from the inside out, until all that remained was ash and dust. That is no way to rule any nation.”

  A fierce wind howled as it cut through the sails, Kilai burying deeper into her coat. “But surely you cannot believe all of this, if you do not believe they have come again?”

  Nyebi waved her away. “I do not doubt these children possess something of the power of their ancestors. They may call themselves what they like. What does it matter, when they will be swallowed up by the Empire all the same? At least the people will not go hungry. Pride does not feed an empty belly. Pride does not stop a war.”

  Kilai mulled on these words, eyes flicking to Ivor’s broad shoulders, unmoving despite the growing gale around them. The first trickle of rain was like icicles against her skin and she shuddered. “I think I will try to get some rest before my shift,” she said, handing over her cards. “Thank you for the game, Nyebi.” She cut herself off, before she could tack ‘wei’ onto the end of her name.

  “We did not finish.”

  “Another time, perhaps,” she said, rising to join Ivor at the railing.

  “Are you going to stand out here all night?”

  Ivor started, gaze swinging around to hers. It took him a few moments before his eyes settled and he pressed his lips together, exhaling out his nostrils in a cloud of cold steam. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How it always looks the same. Never changes.”

  “Are you all right?”

&nb
sp; “Fine. Fine. Couldn’t be better.”

  One hand gripped the railing, body angling back to the sea as if magnetised by it. She moved so that she stood between his view of the roiling water. “Are you sure? You look a little pasty.” It wasn’t a lie; his waxen skin was damp with sweat despite the chill in the air.

  “I am a redhead, Shaikuro.”

  “Barely.”

  He scratched his red beard. “Close enough.”

  “Are you coming inside? Because I will leave you here.”

  His mouth quirked. “I’ll be in soon. I just wanted to watch it a little longer.”

  Kilai bit her lip and then sighed. “Fine. I don’t care if you get blown overboard,” she muttered as she stalked back below decks, welcoming the shelter from the biting wind and rain. A few of the crew nodded to her as they passed, on their way to prepare for the looming storm.

  At the end of a long shift, Kilai was relieved to be able ease her weary body into her hammock, massaging her stiff ankle and rolling out her shoulders. There were too many clicks for her liking – a sign that the life she was living was ageing her too quickly. A few more years of this and she would look like a wizened crone before she had reached the end of her youth.

  “You sound like you’re falling apart.”

  Kilai jumped. Makku peeked his head around from his own hammock, dark eyes searching. “I thought you were asleep,” she murmured quietly, so anyone around would not hear them speak in Myrish.

  He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Nightmares?”

  “Something like that.”

  She was about to come out with something flippant when she remembered he had just lost his crew to a storm. One that had shaken the wooden beams overhead, rain crashing down upon the deck above just as it did now, dripping between the gaps and running with each vicious rock of the ship. It was enough to stir the memories in her own mind, remembering the heart-wrenching terror and the pain. Kilai had travelled with Kallan’s crew for a short time but to Makku they were family. Her hand wrapped around the turtle pin hanging from her neck.

  “You didn’t have to do all this, you know. You could have stayed behind. Found somewhere else to go.”

  He raised a brow. “Where else would I go?”

  “You could return home for a while. Or find another ship. What we’re doing… it’s not exactly safe.”

  “So why do you do it?”

  Reaching into her pocket, she unwrapped the cloth she had used to cushion the vial just enough to show the edge of the glowing blue liquid. “It’s hard to say.” She quickly covered it once more and slipped it away. “I have already lost much. My family are dead and my home is no longer my own. I find myself aimless, cast adrift. This was my attempt at finding adventure.”

  “You sure picked a good one, huh?” Makku mirrored her wry smile. “Anyway, Kallan wanted this to be done and if I’m all that’s left of the crew, then responsibility falls to me.”

  “You know she wouldn’t want that if you didn’t.”

  Makku snorted. “Then you didn’t know her very well. She would have stopped at nothing if it meant…” he leant in close enough for his breath to tickle her ear, smelling of the pickled mackerel they had eaten earlier. “If it meant bringing them down.”

  Her heart thudded, eyes darting around. But the few crew members around them snored on in bliss as the ship continued to rock and groan beneath the onslaught of the building storm, the sounds drowning out their whispered conversation. “Let’s not go around saying things like that, hm? You should try and get some sleep. It’s a long journey to the continent and we will need to be fresh when we arrive.”

  Makku huffed, throwing himself back onto his hammock, swinging viciously above hers. “First we need to survive.” The metal hinges squealed beneath the force of his rocking.

  Kilai threw a boot at him.

  “Oi!”

  “Give it back, please.”

  “You threw it at me!”

  “Shut up!” grumbled a voice on the other side of the room and they fell into silence.

  A weight dropped onto her stomach and she stifled a pained grunt, glaring up at a sniggering Makku with her boot in hand. But it had done the trick. It seemed to release the tension he had been carrying with him, his soft snores soon apparent from above. Kilai sighed, settling in for the night. As much as the shaking of the ship disturbed her, she was so bone weary she knew it would not take much for her to crash into her own slumber. With her hand curled around her turtle pin, she fell asleep to thoughts of warm sunshine on black cliffs, watching the ships come in with her father.

  *

  Janus only had four bullets. If everything hadn’t fallen apart he would have bought some in town – usually his contacts had them shipped to Tsellyr from Yuratsa. If he hadn’t been leaning against the wall to keep himself upright, bracing himself for the riftspawn prowling the halls of the monastery, he might have been able to convince one of the rift maidens to charm some more for him. As it was, he edged along the wall so he could peek around the corner, gazing at the swirling vortex of the rift beyond. If he stared at it straight on it left him feeling dizzy and disorientated, the room spinning when he dragged his eyes away.

  The upset distracted him, unaware of the way the wall melted behind him until a piece of it dripped onto his shoulder and he whipped around, gun pointed in its direction. The wall shuddered and then settled, the creature apparently gone. Janus took another step backwards, keeping his eyes peeled on any potential movement. Wherever the riftspawn had disappeared to, it would resurface soon enough, and it could be anything. It left him paranoid, careful of every step he took, turning in tight circles as he moved further down the corridor, away from the bright lights of the rift tearing a hole between realms.

  A whispering started behind him and he spun, only to find nothing there. Grip tightening on his gun, Janus closed his eyes and listened for it. The faint tap of the wind against a distant window registered, and beneath that, a rustling sound like someone crinkling paper. It came from above and Janus glanced up just as the ceiling of the room drooped downwards, stone taking the consistency of a viscous liquid, thick like tar. Diving out of the way just as a hand lunged for him, he rolled across the floor to the sound of a trilling laughter. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck.

  It was difficult to fight something that could become anything he saw around him. Janus couldn’t exactly shoot the building down, as much as he wished that was an option. With the way things were going he was less and less sure it would be standing at the end of this disaster, anyway. So he ran with the walls pressing in towards him and the ceiling trying to scoop him up into its grasping hands. He ran until the room solidified and the rustling sound faded. Until he could finally stop, form taut with tension.

  His body trembled with the weight of his exhaustion. Bruises and scratches marred his hands and arms from throwing himself out of the way of the riftspawn. He’d shot his way through so many he had long lost count but no matter how many he felled, he couldn’t keep up with how many poured from the rift. With a hand propped against the wall, he paused to catch his breath, feeling the stare of a painting on the opposite wall depicting a man looking upwards at a bright cloud above his head. The light shone from his eyes and mouth, radiating outwards in beams.

  Footsteps echoed in the adjacent corridor and Janus didn’t even think, gun raised in the blink of an eye as Neyvik burst into the room. She raised an unimpressed brow at him but he did not retract his hand. The rustling was beginning again, growing louder and louder. Her hair fanned around her as she turned her head, searching for the location of the noise. It sounded from every direction, overwhelming his ears. If Janus couldn’t trust his senses, he had nothing.

  Neyvik’s hand wrapped around his arm, tight enough to crush. “It’s coming.” Then she yanked.

  Moments after they dived out of the way, the ceiling crashed down upon them, long fingers outstretched to snap them up. They sharp
ened to points, trying to spear them as they ran away. Janus shoved Neyvik out of the path of their pointed ends and fired off a shot that was swallowed up by the spilling, warping edges of the very building itself. The creature had infected the very structure of the monastery and turned the maidens’ place of sanctuary into the enemy itself. There was nowhere they could be safe.

  Janus contemplated escaping back to the church within the centre of Yuratasa, but as he helped a winded Neyvik to her feet he shook himself of the notion. The world could not hide in one tiny church for the rest of their lives. They had to do something and they had to do it quick before there was nothing left of it to save. That such a momentous task should fall upon his head felt portentous, like it was a trial he had to face to atone for his past mistakes. Perhaps it was. But there was no time for dwelling. A soldier only knew action and so Janus would act. The story Hogar had told to him had sparked a flame somewhere deep inside.

  “Need to sanctify this place!” he shouted, breaths ragged over the pounding of his feet against the quaking ground.

  “How in the Locker do we do that?”

  “There’s a way.” Janus hovered at the top of where the staircase had once been, peering down the steep drop to the floor below. “Been done before.”

  Neyvik glanced back over her shoulder, sweat shining on her brow. “How?”

  “Run!”

  They took off running once more as the walls squeezed inwards, so quickly they barely had the time to react. Neyvik tripped, Janus tumbling over her until they both crashed to the floor. No longer made of solid stone, it began to swallow them down, creeping up over their legs and then bellies, until they sunk down into the swirling mass of whatever substance had been formed in the balance between the physical world and the spiritual. Using his revolver to pierce his way through the sludge, Janus held his breath and grasped Neyvik’s ankle as he dropped through the other side, the two of them crashing to floor below.

  The ground trembled beneath their weight, its loose, elastic surface cushioning their fall. With a groan Janus sat up, inspecting his torso for injuries. Neyvik glared up at him through the curtain of her hair, blood dripping from a gash across her brow. “Your bright idea, gunslinger. What is it?”