Page 22 of The Garnet Daughter (The Viridian Priestess #3)

“You shall have it as soon as the storm passes, and a word of advice: don’t stay in the next town after sunset. The eclipse has a mind of its own.”

The sandstorm seems to pick up as soon as we seal ourselves back in the Viathan ship.

It continues to grow in strength for the next few hours as we wait it out.

The wind blows a constant stream of grit.

I can’t help but picture the metal surrounding us wearing down to nothing as the storm rips its way in, one grain of sand at a time.

Commander Wesley reassures me that the howling scream outside is harmless, but I remain unconvinced. The terrible sound is a feminine shriek and too similar to sounds I wish I could forget.

I wander around the ghostly ship in search of a comfortable spot to flip through the spell book for more information on Omnesis and the old gods.

The book is as much a journal as it is spells and rituals.

The priestesses of old who used it logged knowledge they experienced using the spells and stories they heard their priestess sisters pass down through the order.

I wonder how long it remained hidden in the Viathan temple; did the fleeing priestesses know it was there, or were they so afraid of the arriving First Son soldiers they left behind even precious things in their hasty escape?

I make my way to the mess hall, where both commanders sit at different round tables intently staring at their data pads, the too bright room making the details of their black armor more apparent. Commander Wesley has tea in front of him but his sole focus is down at his data pad.

“Am I ok to enter?” I ask, not sure if I can eat with them.

It sounds stupid saying aloud, but I have never been around any other Viathan commanders.

Ferren once explained that 99 could remove his helmet because of the privilege of his rank, but that the others were bound to it.

I shuffle on my feet, assuming this is a private dining room.

“Of course.” Commander Wesley removes his boots from the chair next to him, sitting straighter. “The food stations have a few selections.” He gestures to the back wall lined in crisp metal boxes hovering over a shiny countertop.

“Thank you.” I weave through the tables, doing my best to round the sides farthest away from Commander Vermeil.

Unfortunately, he sits close to the end, where the dispenser for bowls and utensils is, so avoiding his proximity isn’t an option.

Collecting the needed supplies, I keep my head down and make my posture unapproachable, not that he seems like the type to start a conversation.

I stretch my arm out, not willing to step closer, and lean so far my hip knocks into the spell book and it falls off the countertop, opening to a random page.

I quickly pick it up, praying there is no damage, running my fingertips along the impacted edge.

The bookmark I was using is missing, but Commander Vermeil is already squatting down to retrieve it.

I groan internally.

He rises, looking over the note August left me this morning, the one I kept and am now using as a sentimental place holder. He stares at it for so long that if I could reach it, I would snatch it away. Picking up dropped belongings is only kind if you respect their privacy.

He steps closer, holding it between his two fingers for me to take.

“Thanks,” I say flatly and turn my back to him, determined to return to my task of filling my bowl with bland Viathan food.

The dispenser next to me whirls to life and protein squares fall into the slot. My peripheral catches the outline of Commander Vermeil’s armored body collecting his meal and then thankfully exiting the mess hall.

Instantly, my shoulders relax. I’m unsure if it’s his mood or personality, but whatever it is, it’s extremely off-putting and makes me notice every unnatural move he makes.

I collect my sad meal and sit at the same table as Commander Wesley. It seems rude to take another.

“Will the storm pass soon?” I ask him, pushing the dry, crumbly pieces around my bowl.

He taps a few times on his data pad with purpose and then turns it toward me, leaning in to see the front as well.

“We are here. The storm’s heart is there.

” He taps a button, making the dots smaller and more zoomed out.

“If it continues the same path, it shouldn’t be much longer, but you never know with these things.

Sometimes they linger, and sometimes they dissipate. ”

“Oh.” I crunch into my food, trying to keep the sound under control.

“The next town isn’t far, but if we flew in this, the engine would seize up. Once it passes, we will check for damage, clear out any debris, and then head out.”

“We don’t have long,” I remind him.

“I work fast,” he says with a smile in his voice.

“And what about Commander Vermeil? How does he work? Have you—” I clear my throat, unsure of what I am asking. “Do you know him well?”

“I am not in his fleet, but he is a decorated pilot.” His words slow at the end as he realizes my question is odd.

“That’s good.”

“Something I need to know?” he prods like a true bodyguard, just as Ferren described him.

“No, I think maybe I am not used to being around commanders.”

“Depending on where we are assigned, it is not uncommon to rarely interact with people outside the fleet. Makes for bad manners.” He stands, grabbing his tea. “But if you are uncomfortable with . . . anything, tell me.”

“I’m fine; that information is actually a relief even if it is a tad bleak.” I smile at him as a thank you and scoop up another bark-dry spoonful.

Commander Wesley leaves me alone in the mess hall, taking his tea to drink in private. I manage a few more bites of the Viathan food and listen to the wind whipping across the side of the ship.

Then, I decide I would like to see exactly what a sandstorm resembles out the cockpit windows and not just shapes moving on Commander Wesley’s data pad.

Unfortunately, when I arrive, Commander Vermeil is at his command station, hovering over it with his palms flat on the surface, and as he hears me reluctantly approach, he looks over his shoulder like he is expecting me to announce why I am interrupting him.

“I wanted to see the sandstorm,” I state, not willing to let him make me uncomfortable again.

The cockpit is dark, but the buttons at the front flicker like stars and the strips of light lining the floor and ceiling edge do most of the illuminating. The windows are closed, the front completely walled off, as if there are no eyes on this ship at all.

He watches, considering me in a way that feels less unsettling now that I know he is seriously lacking in socialization skills.

I wonder if Viathan begins training the commanders as children like the priestess order does.

The thought makes me sad for comparing the two, but more so because it seems plausible.

He turns back and presses a button at his side, commanding the panel closest to me to open and reveal the front window. It’s odd, yes, but the small kindness is enough to make me feel guilty for thinking him strange.

Darkness blots out the glass, but when I move closer, the presence of tiny, dancing particles move across the surface in a chaotic pattern.

They catch on the metal edges and fly upward into the window like a constant explosion of sand.

I watch for a long time, hoping to see any break or direction change, but it continues relentlessly.

“Thank you, Commander Vermeil.” I pass by him, where he now works on an open panel in the wall.

“You’re welcome, Callia,” he says without pausing his task, voice muffled stiffly by his helmet.

I adjust my bookmark from sticking out too much to prevent any creasing and decide to wait out the rest of the storm in my room. I can lie down and read through the spell book in peace.

But then I pause, not knowing exactly why until my mind catches up with the deep knowing within my body.

Wait . . . Callia? He called me Callia.

Which is strange because only one person has ever called me that.