Page 17

T here’s a tautness in the air at breakfast. Men scrutinise their comrades’ faces, laughing weakly when suspicious gazes connect.

There’s an almost collective sigh of relief when it’s clear no one here is showing symptoms. Shoulders drop, conversation eases.

At the table behind me, a Skeldar shivers in the chilly air. “Snowing early this year.”

“Shaman predicted a cold so brutal, not only Iskaldir will see an early ice-over, but half of Lumin too.”

I grip my spoon hard.

Quin had hoped to make it into the mountains and back to the capital before winter. An early cold means... He’ll be stuck on Mount Lysippos for months. Travelling would be too dangerous. Using magic to clear a path would drain him and Nicostratus too quickly. Even with a dozen linea clearing the way, it would be agonisingly slow. And worse: far too conspicuous.

The regent’s men are set on killing him, after all.

No, the royal brothers have to arrive stealthily, with the surviving witnesses. But being stuck on a mountain would make it easier to corner him. They’d only need to set traps at the base and wait for spring...

“Has that spoon offended you in some way?” Megaera slips onto the bench beside me, elegantly kicks her foot into Lykos’s shins across from us, and smiles daintily.

Lykos grunts, then smirks. “Surrounded by Skeldars, and you’re the one to fear most.”

The smirk turns into a laugh.

I adjust my grip on the spoon, trying to push thoughts of Quin aside. He doesn’t want me interfering in his life. There’s nothing I can do from here anyway.

I shove my untouched porridge away, prop my elbows on the table, and sink my pounding head into my palms.

“Cael, are you—” Megaera cuts off.

All chatter stops.

I raise my head to see the captain making a tight-lipped appearance.

Megaera and Lykos also lose interest in their food. Last night, I told them about the burning ship.

The captain holds up a tiny scroll of paper. “They’ve sent scout boats. They’ll arrive within the hour.”

He turns sharply on his heel and held breaths release around me. We’ll be fine. We’ve pretty much made it —

An urgent screech echoes through the bowels of the ship.

Dozens of spoons clatter into bowls, and Skeldars leap to their feet, shouting to grab weapons, as the man I’d paralysed stumbles in.

His limbs are trembling, and so is his voice.

My stomach tightens.

“Kjartan—captain—it’s Hakon. He’s . . . he’s sick. He’s got . . .”

I slam my eyes shut, drawing a quiet breath as panic erupts around me. Megaera slides closer, her body strung taut.

Lykos lurches to his feet and bolts from the room, calling for Zenon.

Kjartan blows on his fingers, releasing a sharp whistle that commands immediate attention. If he’s afraid, he hides it well. The elegant lines of his face tighten with responsibility, sharp control. He speaks, and no one dares challenge him.

“Sit. Down.”

They sit.

He addresses the bearer of the bad news. “Rurik. Details. Now.”

“We were on night watch. Nothing happened. Around dawn, we played a little by the brig, to stay awake.” A guilty look.

“Continue.”

“At first, I thought he was flushed with drink; we fell asleep. When I woke just now, he... he...”

The captain grabs him by the hood of his cloak. “By Hrafnar’s beak, spit it out.”

“He’s still sleeping. But his face. It’s covered in boils.”

Rurik’s frightened eyes latch onto me.

I rise slowly, hiding any signs of concern. I’m the one they’re looking to; their hope. My reactions control their panic. “I’ll see him. Rurik, you’ve been in contact with him. Quarantine yourself. No one but me goes near them.”

Megaera clutches my arm, her eyes warning me.

Stay steady. Stay strong. “Keep them calm. Get everyone to cover their nose and mouth.”

I stop by my cabin, pull out a kerchief, and tie it around my face, my shaky fingers fumbling. I gather all my rare herbs and Grandfather’s books, then head to my patient.

The captain is waiting outside the brig.

“Wear a face covering,” I tell him.

“I must show my men I’m not afraid. I’m willing to go down with them.”

“You have a responsibility to lead by example. If more crew get sick, even if I have the knowledge and ability to heal them, I may not have enough resources to.”

He processes this with a firm press of his lips, then pulls a kerchief from his cloak.

“You don’t have to come in,” I say.

“You won’t change my mind about that.”

We enter the brig. Hakon is slumped over the table, snoring. As we round the table, the dreaded sight of pus-filled boils meets us.

“Lindrhalda have mercy!”

“I thought you didn’t believe.”

“I do if it’s the only chance of a miracle.”

I take out a square of silk, laying it over Hakon’s wrist. He stirs, then continues snoring as I press my fingers to his pulse—

That doesn’t make sense.

I press deeper. Check again.

The phantom sensation of his skin beneath my fingers grips me now. My breath shortens. The memory hits like a punch to the gut: Vitalian Dimos, prone and bloodied on the canal in Hinsard. I’d checked his pulse too—weak and weakening. I’d wanted save him, but without magic, he’d died under my hands.

I shake off my fear. I must concentrate.

There’s no weakening of this man’s pulse. I frown.

“What is it?”

“His pulse is steady, strong. Fit.” I move the silk to his forehead and press my palm against him. “No sign of fever.”

“What does that mean?”

I search Hakon’s face again. The boils are real, but... I spy a small pouch under his cheek, used as a pillow. A wedge of embroidery catches my eye—a beautifully stitched rune, nestled in a patch of strawberries. But there’s a small hole in the fabric...

I suck in sharply and pluck the pouch free. Dried, crumbled flowers and rune-carved pebbles spill out of the knotted end.

Hakon lurches upright, dazed. His gaze sharpens on me and the pouch in my hand.

He lunges for it, but Kjartan grabs his arm and yanks it down.

At the sight of his captain, Hakon slams a fist to his heart in respect.

I take the knife from the captain’s belt and drag the tip through the dried flowers.

“It’s a dromveske. The runes inside catch pleasant memories,” Kjartan says. “An Iskaldir tradition—a gift between lovers.”

I sniff the end of the knife. As I thought. Strawberry thistle... and another weed. A reaction to this mimics sinister disease.

I laugh bitterly and slide the knife back into the captain’s sheath.

“When did you get this?” I ask Hakon. “Where?”

“My girl. During the farewell a month ago.”

A month ago. “Did anyone else get one?”

Kjartan speaks, “The farewell festival is at the start of the season, before we take to the sea. For those leaving their loved ones on extended journeys. There would’ve been many setting out; most probably got dromveskes.”

“Are they handmade by the giver, or—”

“She bought it for me, at a stall in Portael.”

“How is this relevant?” Kjartan asks.

I pull off my kerchief. “This isn’t the poxies.” I gesture to the spilled flowers. “It’s thistleweed. It looks very similar to strawberry vine. Contact with the skin causes harmless boils.”

Hakon feels his face. “Boils?”

A lookalike symptom.

Like mine, Kjartan’s expression pinches. “How long will it take for the boils to disappear?”

If we had bittertree balm and magic, this could be cured immediately. With neither, I can only grind up some frostbloom in oil. “By tonight.”

The captain curses and slams a hand against the wall.

“At least it’s not the poxies. Send a message and—”

He hauls me away from Hakon into the hall outside the brig and throws me against the wall. “Ignorant fool,” he snarls under his breath. “Why would they believe us?”

“If they gave us time, they’d see for themselves.”

“They won’t give us time.”

“Why not?”

He lowers his voice further. “This may be worse than if it were the poxies.”

I start to protest, but he shuts me up with a scowl.

“If all this resulted from dromveskes, they’ve taken innocent lives for nothing.” Kjartan slams his palm against the wall beside my head. “They’ll cover this up. For the sake of peace.”

“What peace?”

Serious eyes bore into mine. “A mistake of this magnitude? Their authority will be undermined. Those grieving their loved ones are holding themselves together, believing their children’s deaths were meaningful. Sacrifices to protect the people of Iskaldir. But a bad batch of dromveskes? They’ll rise up.”

I swallow hard. I understand. They would rather burn our ship, all ships, until that batch of bad dromveskes disappears. Then they can claim the poxies have been eradicated. Praise to those who sacrificed their lives.

“They’re coming.”

“Worse,” Megaera says, stepping out of the shadows where she must have hidden to listen in. “They’re already here.”