smell of the ocean. He realized the fear that had been building within him since he’d left Rehada’s home was gone. The only thing he could feel was a sense of pride at what he and so many others had accomplished. The ship might be transferring hands, but it would always bear his mark, and he would bear the mark of the ship as well. He had started a young man who knew the wind, but now… Now he knew ships, which was an entirely different thing. Helping design and build her had made him a better man, and for that, he was glad.
He strode along the edge of the perch, close enough that he could run his hand along the freshly painted surface of her hull. He loved the feel of it-the smooth landscape of the delicate grain, the knowledge that every small part of her was connected to the others. He sensed the very nature of the wood, its ability to provide lift-at least, he liked to think that he could. Such things were the domain of the Aramahn, but there was no one, not even the shipwright, who could claim a closer bond with this ship.
He stopped as he neared the windward mainmast and stared upward, taking her in in all her glory. Twelve masts, each cut from ancient specimens Nikandr had chosen himself. Five hundred trees had been felled to fill her frame. She bore thousands of yards of sail and rope. Fifty men would sail her, and she would live longer than Nikandr, longer than his sons if the fates were kind.
He took the gangplank up to the main deck. Even though the ship was lashed to the perch, it swayed with the wind. The surefootedness that had served him so well took over, his pace slowing, his steps widening ever so slightly. A handful of crewmen were aboard, making her shipshape. Several took note as he climbed the stairs up to the aftcastle, but they neither waved nor approached; they knew and respected his wish to be alone.
He made his way to the helm-the one piece of the ship he alone had crafted. The helm had three stout levers made from winter oak; he touched each of them in turn with a melancholy smile. It would be sad to see this ship go, but it would be an honor to pilot her on her first true voyage, even if it was brief.
Knowing that time was growing short, he pulled one of Aleksei’s vials from inside his coat. He stared at it soberly, his stomach churning from the look of the thing. He had decided that this would be the place he would consume it. He was not overly superstitious, but there was a certain sense of rightness to doing this here. The grub and the poison contained within it was said to burn the wasting from those who consumed them. The only legal methods for treatment of the disease were to visit leechmen or licensed physics, but Nikandr knew that neither could do a thing to halt its progress. They’d done nothing for his sister, Victania, and they’d do nothing for him. And so, to his shame, he had resorted to the black market in hopes of smothering the disease before it had truly had a chance to take hold. So far, nothing had worked, but the effects of these grubs were legendary among the right circles. He prayed to the ancients it would work, not only for his sake, but for Victania’s as well-the second would be hers if all went well.
The moment he unstoppered the vial, the air filled with the rancid scent of cod liver oil. His lips rose involuntarily as he grabbed the tail and pulled the white thing out. It dripped golden liquid back into the reservoir as he stared, thoughts of crunching down on its pale white skin running through his mind. He had never eaten a more repulsive thing than this. Ancients willing, he never would again.
Before he could think overly much about it, he stuffed it into his mouth whole and began chewing. The slick texture of the oil only made the bulbous grub seem that much more revolting. The cod liver oil was heavy, and it tasted like the fermented haddock that the people of Mirkotsk-though he’d never understood why-enjoyed so much. Things grew worse when the viscous interior of the grub, which tasted like rotted chestnuts, squirted free and inserted itself into the mix. He wished he could swallow the thing whole to be done with the chewing, but there was simply too much of it. Any attempt to swallow it now and he would launch his breakfast-what little he’d eaten of it-and the grub all over the deck. So he chewed and chewed and chewed, until finally he pierced the tail, where the poison was said to reside. A bitter, mineral taste spread throughout his mouth. The tip of his tongue went numb. He chewed even faster until finally he was able to get down the first mouthful.
Swallowing a part of it made things infinitely worse, for he was now fighting the urge to gag while simultaneously trying to force the bulk of it down. He swallowed, chewed more, swallowed again, as his stomach began to heave.
Then finally, all of it was down.
He leaned forward, holding on to his knees while breathing deeply. The scent of the deck was gone, as were the smells of the sea. All that remained was the bitter scent of the oil and weeks-old chestnuts.
The numbness on his tongue was growing worse, but he was able to stand and once again breathe with some small amount of ease.
But then his stomach reeled and he began heaving and gagging heavily. He turned and ran to the gunwale behind him. As he stood there, hands gripping in rigor, the contents of his stomach raged up his throat and coursed toward open sea.
CHAPTER 2
Nikandr spit to clear his mouth of the bits of undigested grub.
How desperate had he become? How blind?
The need to save himself, to save Victania, had grown stronger as various remedies had failed to help. He’d placed his faith in ever-more-obscure treatments until finally arriving here, at the belief that a worm taken from the desert to the south of the Great Empire would heal the wasting.
“Are you well, My Lord Prince?”
One of the deckhands. Nikandr waved him away. “Too much vodka, too little bread.”
“Of course, My Lord.”
Nikandr stared down at the waves as they broke upon the rocks, wondering-when the last stages of the disease had finally taken hold-if he would allow it to consume him or if he’d launch himself from the cliffs like so many of the seamen chose to do.
As he pulled the second vial from his coat and stared at the white grub within, a burst of anger boiled up inside him. He reared back and launched it as far as he could toward the sea and the tall pillars of rock below. It twirled downward, the sun catching the glass, making it glint under the morning sun, until finally it was lost from view.
In his mind he cataloged the broths, the salves, the unguents he had secretly purchased and tried. Other than the first few days after realizing he had the disease, he hadn’t felt any sense of desperation-he’d felt like he would somehow find a solution, that it would reverse course-but now, with no avenues left except for the vicious blooding rituals employed by the people of the lowlands, despair was taking hold.
“Looking for your fortune?”
Nikandr turned and found Jahalan standing at the top of the aftcastle stairs. He was a tall man with a gaunt face and sharp, sunken eyes. Had Nikandr not known him for so long, he would have thought he had the wasting, but it was simply how he was built-that and the fact that he ate like a bird. He wore a circlet upon his brow that held an alabaster gem. The gem glowed softly from within-an indication that his bond to a spirit of the wind was active.
“I am,” Nikandr replied, “but I always seem to be looking in the wrong place.”
Jahalan raised his eyebrows and smiled. “That is the way of things, isn’t it?” He looked around the ship, as if taking it in for the first time. “Are you ready, son of Iaros?”
Nikandr shrugged. “As ready as I can be.”
Jahalan, perhaps sensing Nikandr’s mood, took his leave and moved to the starward mainmast, the position from which he would use the spirit bound to him to guide the winds and take the ship on its short maiden voyage.
Udra, a wizened old woman, was already there. She wore a circlet as well, though it held not a stone of alabaster but an almond-shaped opal that gave off a radiance the sun could not completely account for. Aramahn like Udra used opals to bond with dhoshahezhan, spirits that allowed her to control the heft of the ship. Her eyes were closed in concentration, her hands pressed gently to the mast, preparing herself and the ship for the coming voyage. It was an insult, her refusal to give him greeting, but it was one he had grown accustomed to. Udra knew her work, and that was good enough for him.
The crew stopped what they were doing as a familiar sound rose above the din of the eyrie. It was the
