Page 38 of The Sea Witch (Salt & Sorcery #1)
“We have to go ,” Stasia urged her when the roof of a nearby building collapsed in a shower of flaming beams.
“If we leave him here,” Alys noted, “he’ll die.”
“Most probably,” Pasquale agreed jauntily. He held up a wrist encircled by a dull metal band. “I can’t take this off, and it makes magic as useless as a drunken man’s cock.”
Stasia made a face. “Your charm is just as flaccid.”
“With the right motivation, I’ll rise to the occasion.” He smirked.
“No supper for you, children,” Alys snapped at both of them.
The mage turned back to Alys. “What’s it to be, Captain? Let me roast, or set me free?”
Alys placed her hand on the bars.
“Is this wise?” Stasia asked.
He pressed a hand to his chest and looked wounded. “Oh, no, pirates think I’m untrustworthy. I’ll soak my pillow with my tears.”
“Can you open it?” Stasia demanded, ignoring Pasquale entirely.
Alys kept her hands on the bars. Summoning the deft maneuverings of a bee, she channeled that energy into the lock. She worked
and manipulated the tumblers, navigating the metal until, at last, the lock sprang open.
She pulled open the cage door. Pasquale immediately stepped out.
“Here,” Stasia said testily. She placed her hand on the bracelet and it glowed an angry red. Pasquale hissed, but made no
complaint.
The bracelet fell to the ground, split in two.
Pasquale drew in a breath. One moment, he was a man, the next, he was a sleek and handsome falcon. He flapped his wings once,
twice, before taking to the air with a shriek. Then he flew into the night without even a backward glance.
Alys and Stasia sped through the hole in the fortress wall, and then down to the beach. Women were scrambling into the waiting boats, assisted by Jane and Thérèse. Olachi had commandeered the boat moored at the dock, and helped the freed captives to climb in.
“Have we got everyone?” Alys shouted to her.
“They are all here,” Olachi called back.
With the cutters full, and each captive safely aboard, the boats put out to sea. As depleted as the witches’ magic was, they
summoned a last burst of power to help them reach the Sea Witch faster.
Cheers rose up from the cutters, fifty women celebrating their freedom. Alys looked back at the burning fortress, the flames
writhing high against the night sky.
Many hands helped them onto the ship. The crew was already waiting with water and bandages and food. There was barely any
room on the top deck as the freed women took up all available space. Space was made so wounded escapees could lie down upon
the deck as the crew draped them with blankets. Fatima, the ship’s doctor, moved steadily through the injured, caring for
them with calm skill.
One hand pulled Alys up, helping her onto the top deck. Alys looked up into Ben’s set and stern face. His gaze flicked over
her, a pleat of concern between his brows.
Turning away from him, she cupped her hands around her mouth. “Raise anchor and make for open water!”
As the crew scrambled to carry out her orders, Alys strode to Olachi, who bent over two women sitting on the deck. One of
the women had her eyes closed and her head resting in the other’s lap. Olachi pressed a cloth to the escaped prisoner’s side,
stanching the flow of blood, though the woman’s dark brown skin looked wan. There were bits of ash in her natural curling
hair. It appeared that a bullet had grazed her ribs. Yet she bore her wound without complaint.
She opened her eyes and spoke to Alys in a lyrical language.
“Effia wants to know if this ship is better than the last two she sailed on,” Olachi translated.
“This ship will take you to wherever you want to go,” Alys answered. “And our doctor’s going to heal you.”
After Olachi provided a translation, Effia gave a small smile before closing her eyes again.
“Did everyone make it?” Alys asked Olachi.
“We lost no one. But a dozen are wounded. The spells I know are for diplomacy and the settling of disputes. I know little
of healing magic.”
“Fatima,” Alys called.
Composed as always, the ship’s doctor appeared beside her, carrying a painted wooden box that gently rattled with tools and
bottles. Fatima’s hair was covered by a black scarf and her amber eyes flashed with incisive knowledge. She had rolled back
the sleeves of her loose black shirt, revealing sepia forearms that were well-toned from her careful, precise work.
“Captain,” Fatima said with a nod.
“Your report, Doctor.”
“Twelve of our guests have serious lacerations. There are a few minor scratches on some others.”
“And the landing party?”
“Thérèse and Jane are unharmed. But I have to see to the gravely hurt.”
Effia seemed to understand the conversation, because she spoke to Olachi.
“She says she can wait for the doctor,” Olachi translated. “She says there are others who are in greater need.”
Fatima hesitated, but at Effia’s nod, the doctor strode away.
With a fresh cloth, Olachi continued to staunch Effia’s injury. Fortunately, this cloth was less red-stained. A moment later,
Susannah knelt beside Effia.
“May I?” Susannah asked, gesturing to show she wanted to place her hand on Effia. “I’m not the doctor, but I have trained
as a healer, and can help as we wait for Fatima.”
Olachi translated, and Effia gave a small nod. Susannah pressed her palm over the laceration. Susannah closed her eyes. Golden light enveloped her hand, and the light flowed into the other woman. When she lifted her palm, the seeping wound was sealed into a dark crease across Effia’s skin.
“Imeela,” Olachi said to Susannah as she inclined her head. Drawn but looking satisfied, Susannah took Olachi’s hand between
her own.
Alys turned and stared when Ben offered her a tankard. She eyed its contents.
“Ale,” he explained. When she hesitated, he took a sip before handing it to her. “I left the poison out this time.”
She drank deeply, watching him over the rim of the mug. Of all the things she expected from him, concern about her ranked
at the very bottom. Especially after Kinnear’s fortress—which Ben and the navy had once protected—was now in flames. Yet the
sailing master seemed determined to defy her expectations.
With sails billowing, the Sea Witch sped away from the smoking remains of Kinnear’s citadel. A thick smear of black billowed darker against the inky night. The
wind carried the smoke away from the ship.