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“I am too.”

We’ve both forgotten about Ukar. The snake glides between us, slithering over my arm. He sends me a disapproving look as Hokzuh steps back.

The moment’s ruined, and I have never been more relieved and nettled at the same time.

The ship is ready, says Ukar, as drums pound in the distance.

Outside the window, the sun grows dim. It’s high in the sky, but a mantle of night is falling upon the island, hours too early. And the strange fiery veins still permeate the clouds, spreading like a disease. I know where they will gather.

“Come,” I say, touching Hokzuh on the arm. “The race to Sundau has begun.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

It is dusk when we set sail. The sea is a pool of ink, black as far as the eye can see, but by nightfall there is so much fire in the sky that even the sea foam churns orange.

On a normal night, Mount Hanum’anya would be far behind us, and out of sight. Yet its dragon head is aglow with molten rock, and fire spews continuously from its maw. The seas rumble with aftershocks, and ashes coat the ship’s deck.

No one with sense would volunteer for our voyage, but Rongyo wasn’t lying when he said his crew was loyal. How he convinced each man to come is a mystery Ukar has been trying to solve all night.

Hokzuh has nicknamed our galley the Centipede, for all the oars together look like a hundred little feet skittering across the ocean. As one, we wage war against the seas, rowing until our palms are blistered. But we forge on, and before long my eyelids are heavier than iron, and Ukar has to nip me in the shin every time I nod off. In my half-dream state, I wish I’d made cakes.

“Take a rest,” says Hokzuh, landing on the deck for a break. “You’re the only one who hasn’t.”

Finally, we agree on something, says Ukar with a huff. Go on.

“I’m not tired,” I lie. My words slur together, betraying my fatigue.

“It’s an order, Channi.”

It’s not the first time Hokzuh’s called me by that name, so I don’t know why I’m taken aback. I look up and see his wing over my head, covering me from the shower of ash. Such a small gesture, yet a lump hardens in my throat. There are scorch marks on his flesh from falling embers.

The boat rocks as I rise, and Hokzuh steadies me with a hand. His fingers are warm. “Come on,” he says. “I’ll walk you to the cabin.”

Mutely, I nod. I’m shivering and drenched with seawater, but there’s no use drying myself until I’m belowdecks. The wind carries ash. No matter how I spit, I cannot get its taste out of my mouth.

“Did you keep any spindlebeard?” Hokzuh asks. “Take some to sleep, if you need it.”

I have a sprig of the herb in my pocket, but I won’t need it. “Thanks.”

When I enter the hold, Oshli is there, asleep and curled up against my sister, breathing softly.

No matter how tired I am, I’m not sharing a room with Oshli and my sister. I turn to leave, but the young shaman stirs. “You stay with her,” he whispers, rising creakily to his feet. “I’ll row.”

“Don’t forget your scarf,” I say when he leaves it behind. “It’s cold out.”

Oshli looks up at me. Gray circles ring his eyes, and his cheeks are sallow. He’s aged years in just a few hours. As he picks up his scarf, I note a spot of fresh blood on the brightly woven fabric. Oshli quickly folds the spot away and mumbles, “Thank you.”

“Why orange?” I ask the young shaman. I’ve always wondered.

There’s a beat of surprised silence, and then he responds, “It’s bright even in the dark. It reminds me of Vanna.”

When the hatch shuts behind him, Vanna lays a paw on my shoulder. “See? He’s not that bad.”

I whirl. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was pretending. You taught me that.”

“He’s not that bad for a shaman,” I agree belatedly. I can’t help teasing her: “But you could have had a king—even the high queen of Agoria.”