& often it will burn eyow more than eyowre enemi.
—Gjoan proverb
42
NYX STARED DOUBTFULLY at the moored swyftship. She gaped at the huge balloon straining overhead in the cleared fields east of Havensfayre. It seemed impossible that even such a large gasbag could lift and carry the ship beneath it.
Before now, she had never seen a wyndship up close. She had heard how they sometimes docked at Fiskur, but even that was rare. Occasionally she had caught glimpses of the larger wyndships sailing over the M?r, little shadows skimming through wisps of clouds. Still, it was not the same as standing in the shadow of such a sight.
Jace joined her as they waited for the final preparations to be completed before departing. He hid a yawn with a fist. It was well past midmorning, but she could not fault his exhaustion. They’d all had a late night, planning deep into Eventoll for this journey across the sea.
Jace shielded his eyes against the cloudy glare to take in the breadth of the craft. “Hard to believe this is a small ship, meant for skilled maneuvering. The wyndship that I rode from my home in the Shield Islands had to have been five or six times as large. But I was young, only seven at the time, about to take my tests at the Cloistery, so maybe my memory of that cargo ship has grown inflated over time.”
He grinned over at her, clearly trying to use a foolish pun to help with her unease. She offered him a weak smile. It was the best she could muster.
“Last night,” he continued, “I overheard the pirate, Darant, mention the ship’s name. Sparrowhawk. Let’s hope it proves as swift as that bird. Frell said we could reach the shores of Aglerolarpok in less than two days, which seems unimaginable.”
It is unimaginable.
Nyx folded her arms over her chest. She had slept little over the past night. She had tossed back and forth in her small room at the inn, plagued by dreams of the moon crashing into the Urth. Everything was happening too fast. She felt unmoored and tossed about. She had lost so much, and what she had gained left her only angry and out of sorts.
She glanced over to the knight—maybe her father—who was discussing final details with Darant and Frell. Graylin’s two vargr sat grimly off to the side, the tufts of their ears high, swiveling, taking in all around them. Their two pairs of eyes swung her way at the same time, as if sensing her attention. Gazes locked on her, acknowledging the new member of their pack, clearly wondering why she kept away.
She also felt her bond with them. The whisper of a howl echoed in her skull. Still, she could not bring herself to draw nearer. She had kept away from Graylin, unsure what to make of this stranger who was so tied to her past. Her initial fury with him had tempered to discomfort and suspicion. She recognized the distance she maintained wounded him, especially when she had rebuffed any of his attempts to talk to her. Still, she could not deny that a part of her found a measure of satisfaction in his misery.
The tap of boots drew her attention around. Kanthe strode toward them along the wooden planks that coursed across the fields. He was accompanied by a pair of crewmembers, two hard-looking young women in identical gray leathers and dark cloaks. They could be sisters, except one had dark almond skin with white-blond hair, the other had the palest complexion and hair as black as a raven’s wings. The pair had accompanied the prince to the markets of Havensfayre, to restock his arrows. Though from their predatory looks and secretive grins behind Kanthe’s back, their escorting of the prince had a more salacious intent.
Kanthe seemed blissfully unaware, joining Nyx and Frell with a huge smile. He hefted one shoulder, then the other. Behind each, he carried a leather quiver, jutting with striped fletching, like a pair of deadly bouquets. The two women who flanked him carried bundles of the same arrows over their backs and continued toward the ship.
The prince stopped next to Nyx and nodded toward the bundles. “Kethra’kai arrows,” Kanthe said, the elation bubbling from him. “Tipped in bone, shafted in black alder, and fletched in goshawk feathers. Nothing better in all the Crown.”
Jace looked enviously upon the prince, who noted his attention.
Kanthe reached behind his hip and hauled around a double-headed ax mounted on a gray handle. “Found this at a smithy. Forged in Guld’guhlian steel and hafted in unbreakable stonehart, sculpted from a branch harvested out of the petrified forest of D?dwood. Such axes are prized by the foresters here. Its edge is said to never go dull.”
Kanthe pushed the weapon into Jace’s hands. Her friend hefted its length in a double grip, testing its weight, and smiled back at Kanthe. “Thanks.”
The prince shrugged and brushed past him. “If nothing else, it’ll be good for shaving that scruff you call a beard.”
Jace ignored the jibe and kept grinning.
Kanthe frowned back at them. “Why aren’t you two already aboard? I thought I’d be the last one, hopping on just as the mooring lines were tossed.”
The prince hurried toward the swyftship’s open portside ramp with nary a care, as if riding the winds was something he did all the time.
And maybe he did.
As Nyx was dragged along in his wake, she studied the thick draft-iron cables that ran from the balloon down to the sleek wooden boat. The Sparrowhawk looked like a steel-tipped arrow. A thick keel ran from its flat stern to its pointed prow, which was clad in a reinforcement of draft-iron. The bow had a pair of long, narrow windows cut into it, like the squinted eyes of its namesake. A single row of tiny round windows ran back to the stern, just below its flat deck, which rose higher at front and at back into a bow and aft deck.
She watched a crewmember fly from the forward forecastle to the stern, racing across a cable suspended under the balloon. The man hung from a wheeled grip affixed to the wire. She hid a shudder at such a carefree manner.
Back at the Cloistery, she had been taught about wyndships and learned of the alchymy of light gasses that filled their balloons. She mostly understood the dynamics driving this craft, including the special tanks of flashburn used to fire the forges of such a nimble craft.
Still, it was one thing to read about such vessels and another to actually ride one. With every step toward the open hatch, her breath grew shorter, her heart thudded harder.
Ahead, Graylin signaled his vargr, who turned and loped up the ramp. The knight followed his furry brothers. She noted how his palms had swept their flanks as they brushed past him. It was an absent gesture, a brief acknowledgment of their bond. She also saw how his shoulders relaxed for that moment, then stiffened again.
In short order, they all boarded, drawing the remaining crew in behind them. At the top of the ramp, a cavernous cargo hold stretched from bow to stern. It held stacks of crates bound in nets and barrels strapped down. A line of cages hung from the rafters, holding a stir of dark birds, maybe skrycrows.
At the back, a stern hatch was being winched closed.
She spotted a pair of shadowy domed sailrafts flanked to either side of the hatch. She prayed they would never need to use those tiny skiffs.
“This way!” Darant called from ahead. He led them over to a wooden spiral stair that led up to the living quarters. “We’ll be underway as soon as the ropes are loosed.”
As Graylin mounted the steps, he whistled and pointed the two vargr over to a large shadowy stall lined by fresh hay. The pair swept in that direction but diverted to pass close to Nyx. The one named Kalder stared at her sidelong, panting, tongue lolling. Aamon drew closer, his flank grazing her side as he chuffed at her, as if inviting her to join them somewhere warm and safe.