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Instead, Andry slept on deck. The ship rocked in an easy lull. He felt himself suspended between sleep and waking, reluctant to dream of the temple, the feel of the sword, and the red, ruined hands on his skin. In his nightmares, the horse faltered. The sword fell. He slipped from the saddle and was eaten, the hope of the realm dying with him. Starlight bled through his eyelids, brighter than he had ever seen. So far from land, from smoke and candlelight, the stars were like needles through the heavens, pinpricks from their realm to the heaven of the gods. He tried to ignore Corayne dozing only a few yards away, half obscured by Domacridhan sitting next to her. She was little more than a lump in her cloak, the sword half hidden beside her, a spit of black hair curling out of her hood.

The first jolt felt like nothing. An errant wave. A gust of wind filling the sail.

Andry opened his eyes to find the sail flat, the sea calm.A trick of sleep,he thought.Like when you think you’re falling.Even Dom didn’t stir, the constant sentinel staring at his boots.

Andry settled back again, warm in his cloak, the salt air cool on his face.I don’t know why people complain about sailing so much. It’s quite pleasant.

The second jolt made the hull creak, the ship tipping beneath Andry’s body. Still gentle, an easy, steady movement. One of the crewmen on watch whispered to another, their Larsian harsh and hissing with confusion. Another looked over the side of the galley, staring into the black waters.

Andry narrowed his eyes as Dom straightened. His white face paled in the dim light; his lips twitched beneath his golden beard. The Elder stared toward the prow, where Sorasa slept upright, her arms folded over her body in a tight embrace.

Something unfurled in the dark, outside the weak spheres of light swaying from the mast, prow, and stern. Andry stared, squinting.

The Elder was on his feet in a second, his voice raised in warning, already lunging.

For once, the immortal was not quick enough.

A muscular arm of green and gray snapped out of the darkness, curling around a sailor’s chest. It was slick and gleaming, reflecting the light like the belly of a slug. The man choked out a wet gasp, the air crushed from his lungs before he went overboard.

Andry blinked.

What an odd dream.

Then the ship heaved, Dom shouted, and another sailor went over the rail, alive enough to scream, his ankles tangled in a meaty, curling vine of wet flesh. The sound of his voice was abruptly cut off the by the slap of the waves as he was pulled under.

Andry tried to stand but was caught in his cloak, his limbs still heavy from sleep. “What is it?” he heard himself rasp.

The lanterns swung with the motion of the ship, out of rhythm with the waves. Something was pushing them, bobbing the galley like a toy.

Corayne blinked, bleary-eyed, as Dom hoisted her to her feet and pressed the Spindleblade into her arms. Her eyes found Andry, the same question on her lips as the ship swayed beneath them.

Her words died with the next member of the crew, a curling tail like a whip wrapping around his throat and yanking him overboard. Andry watched, slack-jawed, as the two-hundred-pound Larsian disappeared into the sea.

“The Spindle,” the squire breathed, feeling terror claw up his throat.Was it here? In the waves beneath them?But there was no telltale brush of lightning, of wrongness. Only the night filling with screams. The Spindle was still far away, but its monsters had spread wide.

Sailors shouted back and forth, springing into action. Pulling ropes, tying off sails. Most grabbed weapons: swords and long, hooked spears better suited to fishing. One shouted into the hold, calling for the captain and the rest of the crew.

Sigil emerged before anyone else could, pushing the fugitive priest along, her face grim. Her ax spun in her free hand.

Andry fought to his feet and rushed to the mast. The Elder backed Corayne against it, his body set broadside to the rail. “I should tie you down,” he said, grimacing at the mainsail.

“Don’t you dare,” she snapped. “I have a vested interest in not drowning.”

The Elder ignored her, running out a length of rope and looping it around her middle. “You’ll only drown if the ship sinks. And if we sink with a sea serpent, you’re as good as dead anyway.”

Her golden face went pale in the lantern light. She didn’t fight when the rope tightened, backing her to the mast. Instead she glanced at Andry. He expected to see the same terror he felt in his heart. But there was only cold resolve in Corayne an-Amarat.

“My blood is as much saltwater as it is Spindle,” she said, grim.

The squire wished he could say the same. Night pressed in from all sides of the ship, the lanterns a weak defense against the beast curling in the water.

“Sea serpent,” Andry managed to breath.

The ship rails bristled with armed sailors, their hooks and short ship swords brandished like needles. They peered at the water, ready for the next strike.

“Better than a kraken,” Valtik singsonged, dancing over the deck with her dirty bare feet. The full, cleaned skeleton of a fish dangled from her belt. “We are not forsaken.”

Sigil scowled. Her ax flashed. “Does she always do that?”