My hand has barely closed over the skiff’s rail when a gust sweeps in from behind us, strengthening by the second until my elaborate braids lash about and a relentless, high-pitched whistle drowns out all other sound.
I sense us sailing across the water. Shielding a hand against my eyes, I search the darkness, a mixture of numb terror and unbridled awe warring within. Sprays of seawater batter me from all sides, stifling my breath and soaking my clothes.
And in the midst of it, Gesine stands at the bow as if made of stone and anchored to the sea floor, her gleaming irises like demonic beacons in a turbulent storm.
A loud crack sounds, and something flies past, grazing my cheek.
“It will not hold much longer!” Elisaf’s bellow reaches my ears over the deafening roar.
The skiff groans in answer. It’s meant for catching meals for two peasants, notwithstanding a typhoon.
“Enough!” Zander yells.
As suddenly and ferociously as the torrent arrived, it abates, leaving us in a quiet, breezeless night, the wind’s terrible howl only a memory lingering in my ear.
Blinking away the sting of the salt water, I search for Cirilea, but I can’t find it. I can’t find anything. Darkness envelops us. “How far are we from land?”
“Too far.” Zander tosses a chunk of wood into the sea. His edge has always been his cool, calm demeanor, the way he can deliver punishing words with icy efficiency. Now, fury radiates from him. “You nearly tore us apart!”
“I am not as experienced at harnessing wind as those in the sailors’ employ. It can be difficult to control. But we needed to leave quickly to avoid further attack.” Unlike Zander, Gesine remains poised.
It seems to only infuriate Zander more. “And yet you brought us here. Which is where, exactly? Because surely, it is nowhere near Widow’s Bend.”
“I fear the area you speak of will be too congested with soldiers hunting us.”
“And yet, that is where we need to go to meet the Legion.”
A lyrical tune carries in the stillness then, so faint I wonder if I imagined it.
But Zander’s and Elisaf’s heads snap in the direction it came from, and I know it was real.
Another call sounds, like a song muffled beneath the water, impossible to decipher but pleasant. Lulling, almost. I feel an innate pull, an urge to reach for the oars and paddle out in search of the source of such enticing music. “What is that?”
Zander curses. “She’s delivered us to the sirens.”
Alarm bells ring in my head as I search the night for any hint of the monsters Wendeline claims have plagued the water since the tear in the Nulling that unleashed hellish beasts. They’ve made passage by ship impossible for any immortal, sniffing them out like bloodhounds on a scent.
“We are not in siren territory,” Gesine counters evenly.
As if to challenge her claim, another soothing song carries, and that same pull tugs at my consciousness. If the siren fables I’ve read are true, that’s how those creatures lure their victims.
“They will not travel this far south,” Gesine amends.
“With an Islorian of royal blood and an immortal who is also a key caster, are you so sure?”
Her answering silence betrays her confidence.
“Wherever we are going, I suggest we go soon.” Elisaf dumps a bucket of water over the edge and then bails more from the hull.
I gasp as I swish my feet, gauging the growing pool of water. “Oh my God, we’re sinking.”
“The boat’s frame may have held, but not completely.” He smooths a finger over a crack.
Gesine tips her head back and regards the smattering of stars that peek out between the broken cloud cover. “There is a small port called Northmost—”
“No,” Zander cuts her off. “I know which port you speak of, and it will be crawling with locals who would happily send word of our whereabouts to Cirilea, including that one of our companions is a woman with a gold collar around her neck. Not that my brother won’t already be aware, given the display back there.”
Gesine touches the shackle absently, a simple, one-inch band encircling her delicate neck that marks her as one of Queen Neilina’s powerful elemental casters.