Corayne ripped her eyes from her mother’s crewmates, looking to Dom with lightning speed. He was already glaring back, his mouth set into a thin line. A monster. The goddess of the waters. Her stomach churned like the angry ocean.
Kireem dropped his voice again. “Did you see what the captain cut out of its belly?”
“I was busy chopping a tentacle off Bruto. The beast was still choking him even while it bled to death.”
The other patrons of the shop were clearly listening, as was the tea keeper. Everyone froze, dropping all pretense of pretending not to eavesdrop. Corayne felt as if she might forget to breathe.
Tentacle.
“Three Ibalets, sailors of the Golden Fleet,” Kireem hissed. His fingers wound around Ehjer’s wrist, nails like claws. “In full sail armor and dyed silk, half eaten. All there out on the deck with the creature’s rotten guts.”
Ehjer gingerly nudged his tea away. “Meira of the Waters is ravenous.”
“I can’t believe that,” Kireem scoffed, but his eye said something different. Wide and worried, it darted wildly, searching Ehjer for an answer he could not accept.
“You don’t have to believe it,” Ehjer answered. Licking his lips, he brushed his fingers over the tattoos on his cheeks, tracing the swirls of ink. The action soothed him somewhat. “Gud dhala kov; gud hyrla nov. The gods walk where they will, and do as they please.” Then he raised his voice to his usual roar, gesturing to the tea-shop eaves, where Valtik still stood. “Ah, Gaeda, sit, have a cup,” he said, beckoning to her. “Tell me tales of home! I sorely need them!”
Without a glance at her compatriots, Valtik all but bounced into the shop, the raindrops running from her braids. Corayne did not know it was possible for the old witch to act even stranger, but somehow Valtik accomplished just that. She preened in Jydi again, patting Ehjer on both cheeks, tracing the tattoos he had.
It was distraction enough.
Corayne moved quickly out into the street, one hand pulling her hood low, the other cold without Andry’s skin. They followed her in silence, but she heard the questions rolling from their bodies. She scrambled for answers, trying to make sense of what she’d heard—and which ship was waiting nearby, wounded beyond measure.
Weave the threads, she told herself, drawing a breath through her teeth. Fit the pieces.
Again, she wanted to run. The Tempestborn would be easy to find. Battered, riding low among the proud ships and galleys of the port.
Hell Mel, Meliz an-Amarat, Mother. She wanted to scream each name and see which would draw an answer. She’s nearby; I can feel it. Maybe in the dock market, bartering for supplies. And doing poorly without me.
The wetness on her cheeks could not be rain. Raindrops didn’t sting your eyes.
Her next words came hard, like a knife drawn from her own body.
“I know where the second Spindle is.”
24
THE WOLF
Domacridhan
Again Dom loomed at Corayne’s shoulder while she shopped, trading his Ionian coin freely as evening fell over Adira. The night market was lively, blooming as the sky darkened. In her haste, Corayne didn’t bother to haggle too much. She made sure Andry outfitted himself with a good sword and belt, and found a long, thrusting dagger for herself. The Spindleblade was still of little use, too unwieldy in unskilled hands. Dom had his Ionian sword, centuries old and Vederan-made, her steel as sharp as the day she was forged. His bow had been lost back in Ascal, so he chose another for himself and, after a long, begrudging moment, for Sorasa too. His was overpriced but well made, a double bend of black yew. It was not from his homeland, but the fine swoop of wood reminded him of the glens all the same.
After the weapons, Corayne drifted to provisions. Dried meat, hard biscuits, skins of fortifying wine, a pouch of salt, beans, a sack of apples. Things that would keep for the voyage.
And the desert.
Dom’s throat went dry. He could already feel the sand, gritty on his skin, stinging in his eyes. He was a son of Iona, born to rain, mist, and glens green with life. He did not favor heat and he disdained the thought of Ibal. The dunes like mountains, the sun furious and without mercy. Nor did he want to accompany Sarn to her home, where she would gloat over his discomfort, if not make it worse.
They returned to the Priest’s Hand in good time. Corayne had a head for direction, navigating the streets well. Dom felt a bit like a pack horse, laden with their supplies, bags slung over each shoulder. He expected chatter, but Corayne kept silent, shadowed in her hood. It worried him, to see her shuttered. Andry hovered at her shoulder, trying to coax something out of her, but she fended off all attempts at conversation with a few sharp words.