Black Halo

Thirty-Three

His head was burning. If he knew nothing else in the darkness that he had been plunged into, he knew this.

And the voice that accompanied it, hot with emotion.

‘Could have been so easy …’ it sizzled on his skull, ‘it all could have been so easy. You could have been away now and we could all have been happy. You could have forgotten her, forgotten everything. It would have hurt, but you would have survived. Now?’

The darkness became bright, angry red inside his head.

‘Now I’ll watch you die.’

Lenk’s eyes snapped open. He knew they were open, even if he wasn’t quite sure whether he was awake or even alive. His eyes swam and his head rang. He could see purple shadows moving through great red sheets. He could hear the distant cracking of the sky. His head was still burning, his face still dripping with sweat.

That might have been because of all the fire, though.

The wave of heat that rolled over him returned him to his senses. The wave of crackling orange flame came rolling shortly after. He scrambled to his hands and knees, crawling hurriedly behind the mast before he could feel anything more than the vague sensation of a branding iron tickling his rear end.

Ample reason to figure out what was going on, he thought.

He peered around the mast and was greeted with a sight of carnage. The great red tongues that came lashing out of thin purple palms had long forgotten Lenk. Behind the veil of fire, his face painted orange with the heat, Sheraptus snarled and drove the flames skywards, leaving the deck charred beneath him.

His target, the source of his fury-screwed face, became apparent as the night sky was set alight.

A man, he was at least vaguely sure it was, sailed overhead, the fire licking at his heels as leathery wings carried him over the deck. Those netherling females not lying in various states of cinders, icicles or both surrounded their master protectively, angling drawn bows towards their target.

The man’s hand flashed, in and out of his coat, and produced three scraps of paper. Only when he hurled them did Lenk realise that they were folded into the angular shapes of cranes. That realisation was not quite as interesting, Lenk thought, as the fact that their little papery wings were flapping of their own accord.

The man spoke a word. Whatever language, whatever command, the folded cranes heard and obeyed. Instantly, they turned from white to silver, from dull to shining, from angular to wickedly sharp. Spinning through the air, they found three purple throats and dipped steel beaks into tender flesh.

Bows clattered to the deck. The ensuing gasps and breathless screams as the netherlings clutched at severed windpipes went unheard. Sheraptus appeared less than concerned with the females, thrusting his fingers, and the ensuing whip of lightning, at his elusive prey.

‘Why is this such an issue for you?’ he cried to be heard above the crackling electric blast. ‘I’ve never heard of you before. Why are you so obsessed with me?’

‘Your eradication is a service to more than one power. You are a violator,’ the man replied sharply. ‘In every sense of the word.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I met your victim.’

‘Which?’

‘You took everything from her, including her name.’

‘It comes down to females again?’ Sheraptus snarled, thrusting a finger and sending a jagged blue arc over the man’s bald, brown head. ‘Are vaginae truly so scarce on this world as to be worth this much trouble?’

Lenk took it as his good fortune that the longface’s attentions were so focused elsewhere. His eyes were drawn past the robed figure to the doors of the cabin, just as his thoughts were drawn to Kataria, undoubtedly inside. It would be a simple matter of crossing, infiltrating and retrieving with Sheraptus so distracted.

As simple as matters involving wizards can be, at least.

As if on cue, he felt a familiar hand, far too scrawny and sweaty as to be particularly worrying, on his shoulder. He turned to see Dreadaeleon’s sweat-slick visage and purple-circled eyes staring intently at him.

‘You’ve been busy,’ he noted.

‘It’s incredible.’ The intensity of the boy’s grin raised some concern in Lenk. ‘All of a sudden, the weakness … it was gone! I … I can cast again, Lenk. I can channel it. It feels …’

His eyes went unnervingly wide as he rose up. His pelvis, Lenk noted, was far too close to Lenk’s face before the boastful thrusting began.

‘Look! Not a drop of moisture, not a trace of fire, not a wisp of smoke!’ the boy proclaimed loudly. ‘Look! Look!’

‘No! No!’ Lenk seized him by his belt, pulling forcibly down. ‘Now, listen, the longface is distracted and you’re feeling …’ He paused, shook his head. ‘We’re not talking about that anymore. Denaos very clearly didn’t make it or he’d have let us know. We’ve got to go in and-’

‘Save them,’ Dreadaeleon said, nodding. ‘I can feel it, just thinking about it. The power … I can feel the surge. Isn’t that fascinating? Venarie is internal, to be sure, but it’s ruled by thought and logic, not emotion. For it to work this way is-’

‘Can you go out and get burned alive or something distracting?’ Lenk asked. ‘That … bird-man-thing can’t hold him off forever.’

‘The Librarians are trained to great feats of endurance and power, Lenk,’ the boy replied. ‘He can do more than you or I could.’ He winced. ‘And, you know, I’m technically obligated to help him as a member of the Venarium.’

‘Treason, treachery, betrayal,’ the voice, frigid and sharp hissed inside Lenk’s head. ‘They are useless. We are-’

‘Dead,’ the voice, feverish and burning roared inside Lenk’s brain. ‘You’re dead. You had your chance. You’re going to-’

‘Ignore that. Focus on duty. Focus on-’

‘Her. She’s dead, too. You’re all dead and-’

‘Enough, enough, enough,’ Lenk growled to all assembled. ‘I can do this without any of you.’ He glared at Dreadaeleon. ‘If you’re going to be useless, I can do it without you, too.’

‘Useless?’ The boy mopped sweat off his brow, flicked it at Lenk. ‘Do you think I got this from jogging in place all this time you’ve been unconscious, vulnerable and oh-so-stabbable? I’ve been setting on fire, freezing into ice, frying into blackness and otherwise harming the longfaces. There were ten more on this deck before you woke!’

‘Eleven.’

The longface came shortly after the word, leading in with a purple fist that drove into Dreadaeleon’s jaw and sent him sprawling to the deck. Lenk had scarcely enough time to blink before her hand jerked backward and slammed him against the mast while she took a moment to drive a foot into the writhing boy’s ribs.

‘He’s already-’ Lenk began to protest.

‘No,’ the longface interrupted, smashing her fist into his face.

He felt the bone-deep quake, felt his skin ripple across his flesh with the force of the blow. His vision did not so much swim as struggle to keep from drowning, eyesight fading as he saw first the remorseless, uncaring long face, then blackness, then her drawn-back fist, then darkness again.

He felt the knuckles connect with his jaw, even if he didn’t see them.

Perhaps he was still dizzy from his previous awakening, he thought. That’s why this was so easy for the longface to beat him so savagely. Perhaps this one was just particularly strong, or perhaps they had all been stronger than he suspected. Or had he always been weaker than he thought?

By the fourth blow, and the torrents of glistening red pouring from his nose, his thoughts shifted to something else.

Sword, he told himself. Need my sword. The head … where is it? Sword, head, sword, head … someone …

‘We need no one,’ the voice rang across rime.

‘No one will come for you,’ the voice hissed across fever.

And they, too, faded, with every blow the longface rained on him. His neck felt like a willow branch, his head like a lead weight. His arms were impotent as he tried to shield himself from her attacks. He felt bruises blossoming under his skin, cuts opening on his brow, his jaw. Eyelids fluttering, he stared at the longface as she stared back, appraisingly.

‘Huh,’ she said. ‘Don’t stop to talk before you kill ’em and they just fold right up, don’t they?’

She might have had a point, as the only words he could muster were vain pleas — whether to her or someone else, anyone else, he didn’t know — through blistered lips and a tongue swelling with coppery taste. She didn’t seem to be listening, in any case, as she knelt down before him and pulled a jagged, short blade from her belt and brought it down in a vicious chop.

He caught her arm as a tree branch catches a boulder. His wrist threatened to snap under the pressure, trembling as she strove to bring the blade down towards his soft throat, which twitched so invitingly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lenk took a quick, despairing stock. Dreadaeleon lay fallen. Gariath was still far over the edge. Denaos was dead, Asper likely with him and Kataria …

Kataria was standing there, not twenty feet away.

She was scrambling across the deck hurriedly, pausing only to snatch up a fallen bow and a pair of arrows. Her eyes were on the companionway at the opposite end of the ship, ignoring Sheraptus hurling curses and fire at the sky, the Librarian spewing frost back at him.

She didn’t even see Lenk.

‘Kat!’

Not until he screamed, anyway.

She skidded to a halt, looking at him with worrying confusion. She seemed to recognise him in another instant and frowned, either at him or his situation, he wasn’t sure.

‘Kat! Help!’

His plea for aid twisted in his throat and became a shriek of agony as the longface’s blade came crashing down into the tender meat of his shoulder. He fought back against her still, but even as he kept the blade from biting deeper into his flesh, the jagged teeth sawed at him. His ears were filled with the sound of each sinewy strand snapping under it so that he was only scarcely sure he was still screaming.

‘KATARIA!’

‘Gone,’ a voice said sorrowfully.

It was right. He saw, in fleeting glimpses, the shict cringing, then turning and fleeing into the confines of the companionway. She didn’t even look behind her. She hadn’t even heard him.

‘She did,’ a voice hissed angrily. ‘She betrayed us.’

‘Betrayed you,’ another said. ‘Abandoned you.’

‘What now?’ he gasped through blood and tears. ‘What …?’

‘Fight back.’

‘Give up.’

With a blade in his shoulder, his companions gone and the very reason he came to this ship of blood vanishing into shadow, one option seemed much more tempting than the other.

He never got to make the choice, however, as Dreadaeleon staggered to his feet and, from there, staggered into the longface. Kneeling as she had been, she toppled over with a grunt of surprise, releasing the blade and focusing her attentions and fists on the boy.

He, however, was just as focused on her. And only one of them had crimson light in their eyes.

His hands, pitifully scrawny, clutched her throat, indomitably thick. The word, soft in his throat, went unheard through her snarling. The blue electricity that raced down into his fingertips, however, demanded her attention.

Crackling became sizzling became sputtering as her snarling became screaming became frothing convulsion. Her teeth all but welded together as the lightning coursed from his fingers into her body, snaking past purple skin and into thick bone. As though she were some blackening bull, Dreadaeleon fought to hold on as she seized violently on the deck, his fingers digging into flesh growing softer, eyes turning to red spears as they narrowed.

When it was finally over, he slid his fingers from well-cooked meat, wisps of smoke whispering out from ten tiny holes. He clambered off, exhausted, but not spent as he looked to Lenk accusingly.

‘You could have fought back,’ he said angrily.

‘No point …’ Lenk said. ‘She’s gone, she’s gone.’

‘Who? Asper?’

‘Kataria.’

‘Oh … well, yeah, why wouldn’t she? She’s a-’

‘Yeah,’ Lenk said, reaching up to clutch his bleeding shoulder. ‘Yeah.’

‘So … what now?’

Lenk made no reply, but an answer came to him as a great red hand appeared at the railing. They heard the grunt, saw Gariath haul himself up and over onto the deck. He spotted them just as quickly and rushed over, panting heavily, ignoring the battle raging between the two wizards.

‘Up,’ he snarled. ‘Get up.’

‘What’s the problem?’ Dreadaeleon asked.

‘Big problem,’ Gariath muttered. ‘Big problem.’

‘Where’s Togu?’

‘Dead, maybe? I don’t know. Now get up. We’ve got a big problem.’

‘You’ve said that already but-’

There was the sound of a distant voice shouting commands in a deep, rolling tongue, audible even over the carnage on the deck. They looked out to see the ocean alight with a swarm of fireflies, dozens of little orange dots reflected upon the waters.

‘Are those …?’

At another distant command, the fireflies rose. One more and they flew. By the time Lenk and Dreadaeleon realised the lights were no insects, they heard nothing but the shrieking of shafts and the sizzling of fire.

‘Get down!’ Gariath snarled, shoving the two of them behind the mast.

The arrows came plummeting, singing mournful dirges accompanied by crackling fire. Sheraptus glanced up just in time to throw his hand out, the air rippling as the missiles struck an unseen wall and went quivering. Those females surrounding him that had not noticed in time to bring shields up became smouldering porcupines in an instant.

The entire ship seemed to shudder with the sound of heads biting deeply into wood and flames snarling angrily as they passed through sails. After an eternity of waiting, Lenk dared to peer around the mast.

Across the sea, he saw them, their green faces and yellow eyes aflame as they lit fresh arrows. Their tattoos of red and black were stark against the firelight, causing them to resemble ghouls fresh from a grave, rotted wrinkles and throbbing veins bright on their dire expressions.

Shen, he recognised. Three long canoes full of Shen. Drawing arrows back.

‘That …’ he whispered, ‘that is a problem.’

Gariath shook his head. ‘No, moron. I said we had a big problem.’

‘That’s not big?’ Dreadaeleon said, astonished.

He was answered as the sound of a distant horn rose from the canoes.

And in the next moment, the horn, too, was answered.

In the eruption of the sea and the violent vomit of froth, a resonating roar tore through the sea and ripped into the sky. Combatants and companions alike were thrust to the deck as the ship rocked with the force of a violently disturbed wave. Black against the night sky, a creature rose into the air, a great, writhing pillar topped with two menacing yellow eyes.

The Akaneed stared down at the deck as those upon it stared back up at the titanic snake. Its head snapped forward, jaws parting to expose rows of needlelike teeth, a roar tearing out of its throat on sheets of salty miss.

‘That,’ Gariath roared over it, ‘is big.’

You served your people.

Kataria heard it over her own footsteps.

Yours was a duty to all shicts.

Kataria heard it over her own thoughts.

You did the right thing.

Kataria did not believe it.

And yet, she continued down the stairs of the companionway, all the same. She may have doubted the quality of the Howling’s message, but was driven forward by the frequency and urgency of its insistence. It spoke inside her a dozen times with each step she took.

You did the right thing. You did the right thing. You did the right thing.

By the time she reached the end of the stairs, she knew it was right, because the shict who spoke to her knew it was right. It had ceased to be reassurance, ceased to be a message. It was knowledge now, as primal a knowledge as knowing how to swim and to hunt.

But with the next step, between the two hundred and forty-first time and the two hundred and forty-second time she heard it, she knew she still didn’t believe it.

Perhaps it was that doubt that no shict could ever feel for the Howling that brought the tears to her eyes. Perhaps those came from a different instinct altogether. She didn’t dare think on it. She brushed them from her face with the back of her hand. If she began weeping now, over a human, over the doubt, that knowledge would become shared.

And she could not bear the thought of descending and finding her kinsman weeping as well.

The sight that greeted her in the vast ship’s hold, however, was one of emptiness. Benches and cots lined the hull, presumably for the netherlings to sleep upon when they weren’t fighting, crushing, killing, shoving jagged blades into throats from which her name emerged on blood-choked screams …

Stop it, she told herself.

Stop it, the Howling agreed.

And she did. It was powerful here, speaking to her with greater clarity, greater urgency. It needed only to speak once, and she knew it to be true. She felt her eyes drawn to the darkness at the end of the cabin, the great void that ate the light of overhanging oil lamps. She could see the shadows of a cage’s cold iron bars, and while she could see nothing beyond that, she could hear something; she could feel something.

A heartbeat. A thought. A knowledge that was hers. A knowledge that was theirs.

A shict.

She had barely taken another step when she noticed the lone netherling in her path, and then only after she noticed the jagged blade hurtling towards her. She fell to the deck, hearing the blade’s frustrated wail as its teeth sheared only a few hairs from her head.

‘Just how many colours do you things come in?’ the longface grunted.

Kataria’s answer came with a growl.

The arrow was up and in the bow, drawn back as far as she could force the rigid thing to go, and launched a moment later. A moment was all it took, however, for the longface’s shield to go up, sending the missile ringing off.

Stupid piece of … Kataria thought irately, glowering at the weapon. Who the hell would call this stick a bow?

The netherling, apparently, agreed, if the broad grin with which she raised her sword was any indication. Still, she refused to advance, holding her shield up defensively as she watched Kataria draw her final arrow back. Such lack of a willingness to have a piece of iron wedged in one’s brow, the shict figured, was likely what led this one to be below.

And yet it served her frustratingly well as Kataria aimed and launched, slipping past the longface’s shield to find an unyielding iron breastplate below. It was clear, then, that what the black bow lacked in accuracy it made up for in power. The longface was driven back a step, nothing more than an inconvenience before she readied to charge upon the now-defenceless shict.

Still, Kataria smiled. A single step was all she had needed.

The green fingers that came slithering out between the bars would handle the rest.

The longface’s cry was brief as the long fingers, attached to longer hands and longer arms still, wrapped around her throat in five tiny pythons. They scarcely trembled as they intertwined and pulled her back towards the bars, possessed of a cold passionlessness that suggested this was just one more neck, like all the other necks that had been strangled. Cold hands. Killer hands.

Shict hands.

Kataria forced herself to watch as the crown of the long-face’s head was pulled between the bars, her screams choked as she was fed head-first into an unyielding iron mouth. There was nothing to silence the sound of bone groaning and popping as, hairsbreadth by agonising hairsbreadth, she was pulled between bars that would not accommodate her thick skull.

This, she reminded herself, was what shicts did. Shicts did what they had to. The world, filled with diseases of pink and purple, left them no choice.

The long, purple face was consumed in the void of the cage. Her body twitched soundlessly for but a moment before her legs went slack, bending her back at an awkward angle as she lay still, thick neck wedged between the bars and suspending her in standing, artificial rigour.

Cold, killer fingers slipped out and calmly reached into a pouch at the longface’s belt. A few moments of deft search revealed a wrought-iron key that was drawn out neatly between two green digits. A faint clicking noise emerged after those fingers vanished back into shadow. The cage door groaned as it swung open, dragging the corpse frozen in its grip across the deck with it.

He stepped out of the void, a great green plant out of dark earth, stepping lightly on feet bearing thumbs. Countless time in a cramped cage had done nothing to stunt his stature as he rose high enough for his bald pate to scrape the underside of the oil lamp above him. From his groin up, a long line of symbols ran the length of his body, each one a story.

And each one a death. Of wife. Of child. Of their murderers.

Each symbol was no bigger than a thumbprint, but each sorrow and every hatred was condensed into a pattern of lines that only a shict would know.

Kataria knew.

‘What is your name?’ she asked.

He stared at her with even blue eyes.

‘You already know.’

Upon his lips, the shictish tongue, their tongue, sounded so eloquent. She wondered absently if he could hear the dust on her own tongue.

She searched herself, listened to the Howling.

‘Naxiaw,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘I am … pleased you are well.’

‘Pleased?’ His lips peeled back into a broad smile, his canines twice as large as hers. Long arms parted in a gesture almost warm enough for her to forget they had just been used to pull a longface through bars. ‘Sister. We are not strangers.’

She would have been shocked to find herself laughing, possibly a little worried to find the sound so hysterical. That thought was lost in a sea of emotion that carried her on running feet to leap into him. His arms wrapped about her, drew her close to a broad chest. A great weight had fallen from her, evidenced by how easily Naxiaw drew her up off her feet.

In his arms, she found memory. She found a hand on her shoulder, reassuring her after her ears were notched. She found the scent of rabbits cooking and fires. She found the dirge of bows and the song of funeral pyres. She found memories of her father, his sternness, his words, his speeches, his memories. Of her mother, she found only lightness.

She found everything the Howling said she would find.

‘Little Sister,’ Naxiaw said, holding her closely, ‘you are far from home.’

‘The world is our home,’ she replied. ‘No matter what round-ears say.’

‘It heartens me to hear such words.’

Her father’s words.

‘The creature above,’ the greenshict said, ‘that caused you such sorrow. I felt him. Is he dead?’

No, she thought, he wouldn’t die so soon. He’s above, bleeding out under a rusty knife. Right where I left him.

Not that creature, stupid, she scolded herself.

‘You are worried,’ Naxiaw said.

Watch what you think, moron, she hissed mentally. And don’t look at him! If he can’t tell through the Howling, it’ll be obvious once he sees your face.

‘I was,’ she replied, keeping her voice steady. ‘But I draw strength from my people.’

‘As all shicts should.’

Her grandfather’s words.

‘It is well now, Sister,’ Naxiaw said, easing her down and laying her head upon his chest. ‘I live. You live. We are safe.’

Her ear against his chest, she could hear the sound of memory in his heartbeat. Slow and steady, purpose resonating with every pump of blood through it. It was comforting to hear, at least at first.

The more she listened, however, the more she was aware that she had never heard such a thing before. She had heard nothing so slow, so certain, so sure. And it caused her to pull away, her ears attuned to her own body. There was no more thunder in her ears; there had been, she was certain, when the Howling spoke to her, had urged her to hear it.

Now, she heard her own heart. It was swift, erratic, uncertain, conflicted.

Light.

Unpleasant.

Terrifying.

‘Sister,’ Naxiaw said, furrowing his brow. ‘What is wrong?’

You, she thought. You’re wrong. Your heartbeat is too steady. You’re too sure of yourself. You know everything a shict should know and you hear the Howling like it was another shict. You’re probably hearing this right now because the Howling is … isn’t it?

She said none of that. Instead, she shook her head and spoke words that none of her family had ever said before, that came from her light, erratic heart.

‘I don’t know.’

Naxiaw looked certain, as though he were about to speak with the voice of the Howling and whatever he were to say next would assure her of everything. She watched eagerly as he stared back at her, then said nothing, looking down at the floor of the hold.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘they are almost here.’

‘Who?’ Kataria asked, confusion overriding despair.

‘You cannot hear them?’ Naxiaw asked. He released her, knelt down on long legs to stare at the floor thoughtfully. ‘They have been following this ship for hours now. They are waiting for something.’

His fingers ran over the wood. His ears, six notches to a lobe, perked up. She heard it, too: the groaning of wood, a cry of protest that it knew was useless as something insistent pressed up against it. Naxiaw looked up at her, his eyes keen and his face dire.

‘And now,’ he whispered, ‘it has come.’

The boat rocked suddenly as something struck it from below, sending tremors through the floor, past Kataria’s feet and into her heart. The ship’s groan became a scream as jagged rents veined the wood and bled saltwater.

Naxiaw leapt up and back, putting himself between her and the rapidly spreading crack in the floor. He’s trying to protect me, she realised. Who … no one’s done that for me before. The thought should have caused her less distress than it did.

She herself took a step backwards as another great blow shook the ship. From beneath the widening crack, she heard them: voices, proclamations, hymns, chants, urges, each one brimming with purpose, each purpose rife with death.

Another blow and the floor erupted into a spray of splinters, the crack became a wound leaking clear, salty blood onto the floor. And at the centre, like a black knife, the arm rose: titanic, emaciated, jointed in four places and ending in a great webbed claw.

‘Not them,’ Kataria whispered with what breath she had left.

‘What are they?’ Naxiaw asked.

His question was answered as another webbed fist punched through the hull, ripping the wound into a great, gaping hole. Claws sank into the wood, gripped tightly and hauled an immense black shape onto the floor.

A skeleton wrapped in shadow, crowned with a wide head sporting vast, gaping jaws, it pulled itself free from a womb of water and wood. Its flesh glistening under a cowering flame, it rose from its knees, each vertebra visible beneath its black skin as it rose to its full, imposing height. On webbed feet, it slowly turned about and levelled the head of a black fish upon the two shicts.

The Abysmyth stared at Kataria, its eyes wide, white and empty.

‘At the midpoint on the pilgrimage,’ it said, its voice choked with the voices of the drowned, ‘I looked upon the pristine creation and saw a floating blight. Mother bade me to act on her behalf, unable to bear the agony of the faithless longfaces upon her endless blue. And within the black boil, I found the lost and the lonely.’ It extended a great webbed hand, glistening with thick, viscous ooze. ‘Come to me, my children. I will take the agony of this waking nightmare from you.’

‘Run,’ Kataria said as much to herself as to Naxiaw, ‘run.’

‘What is it?’ the greenshict asked.

‘Salvation,’ the Abysmyth answered.

‘The Shepherd has come,’ a chorus of voices burbled on the rapidly rising water. ‘The faithless tremble. The fainthearted cower. Fear not, fear not …’

‘For I am here,’ the Abysmyth continued, ‘to ease your agony.’ It gestured to the wound. ‘Rejoice.’

And, as one, they came boiling through the hull like a brood of tadpoles. Glistening bodies, bereft of hair or pallor, rejected by the great blue body of the sea and vomited out in a mass of writhing flesh, gnashing needle teeth, colourless eyes. The frogmen came in numbers immeasurable, pulling themselves out of the rising water in a gasping, rasping choir.

‘We have come,’ the great black demon said, ‘to deliver. Messages. Sinners. Everyone.’

‘Run,’ Kataria said, grabbing Naxiaw by the arm. ‘RUN!’

Naxiaw heard and did not question, following her as they sprinted for the stairs leading to the deck. Struck breathless from fear, they spoke in short gasps of air.

‘How do we escape?’ the greenshict asked.

‘The shore isn’t far from here,’ she said. ‘Shicts can swim.’

‘Those things … they came from the water. Is it wise to go in?’

‘We don’t have a whole lot of choice, do we? The ship will go down in a few moments and we’ll be drowning, anyway.’

‘Then we swim. I trust you, Sister.’

Someone else trusted me once, she thought with a pain in her chest. I … I need to. I have to go back for him.

‘Wait!’ she cried as they neared the companionway. ‘I have to …’

He paused, looked at her curiously. What could she say? That she had to stay on this sinking tomb, now rife with demons as well as longfaces, for the sake of a human? The great disease? How could she tell him that? How could she tell herself that, after all the time she had yearned to feel this knowledge, hear this comfort, feel this lightness?

How could she ask herself why her heart beat different than his?

She could not say that, any of that.

‘I have to do what I must,’ she said instead, continuing up to the deck, ‘for my people.’

Someone’s words.

Not hers.