“Look out!” Mite shouted. She ran in front of Noa, flinging the contents of one of the saucepans in the man’s face. Eron fell back as if he’d been struck with a bat, then sat down heavily. The color returned to his eyes, but he seemed dazed, swaying in place.
They didn’t have time to make sure he was all right, so they ran on, water sloshing. When finally they reached the prow, Noa’s left arm was aching almost as much as her injured wrist.
The prow of Astrae was composed of a wheel scavenged from an old pirate ship and a plain wooden box that Kell liked to sit on when she steered. There was also a pole from which hung a scrap of fabric that could have been a bedsheet, but was actually an old piece of sailcloth. That was it. The prow was currently on a hill at the north end of the island, but depending on their course and the direction of the wind, Kell sometimes moved it to another spot.
Noa looked up at the furled mast. The sailcloth was still as stone, despite the breeze brushing the hillside. Both mast and wheel were enchanted, of course, but there was one problem: the island had to be moving in order for them to control it. Usually, Julian kept Astrae moving constantly, even when they docked somewhere, though then the island moved so slowly that it was almost imperceptible. But if Astrae ever came to a dead stop—if, for example, it ran into another island—the prow became useless. The fact that Astrae wasn’t stuck anymore didn’t matter. Julian called it a safety measure—if he needed to leave the island, or was ever captured, he could simply bring Astrae to a halt, and nobody else could take control of it.
Noa chewed her lip. Without Julian, how on earth were they going to move the island?
Cannons boomed in the distance, nearly a dozen shots this time, and Noa winced. She didn’t want to think about the state of the castle. She tapped on the wheel, squinting up at the mast.
The sailcloth twitched.
Noa’s jaw dropped. “Mite,” she said, trying to stay calm, “look at the mast. Tell me I’m not imagining things.”
Mite had been watching her with an expectant look tinged with impatience. She obediently turned her face to the mast. “What?”
Noa’s heart fluttered. “I think the king’s cannons may be moving the island! Only a little, but it might be enough—”
Voices behind them on the path. Mite spun around, her remaining saucepan held high.
“Mite, I don’t think—”
The owners of the voices rounded the corner. Two men and a woman, resplendent in red tunics and bronze breastplates—King Xavier’s colors—each with a sword held loosely in their hands.
Noa swallowed. Astrae had been boarded.
“Hey, kiddos,” one of the king’s soldiers said, and began to lower his sword. “Don’t be afraid, we’re—”
But Mite, possibly too emboldened after her earlier success with Eron, yelled “Yah!” and flung the water from the remaining saucepan in his face.
The soldier stopped in his tracks, sputtering. He drew a hand across his face. “Black seas! What in—”
“Run!” Noa shouted. She dropped the stewpot, which sent up a geyser that drenched her legs, and hooked the wheel with her arm. It was mounted on a post driven into the earth, which came free with a spray of dirt when she yanked on it. She pulled up the mast and tossed it to Mite.
Mite threw her empty saucepan at the man, which went wide. Frightened by her own courage, she let out a squeak and dashed after Noa, the ratty sailcloth flapping behind her.
The soldiers’ voices drifted down the hillside as they ran. “Come on,” the wet man said, sheathing his sword.
“Ah, let them go,” the woman said.
“They know about the antidote,” he hissed. “They must. Why else—”
“Those two? They’re just kids, Ryland,” the other man said. “You could use a bath, anyway.”
“What was that stuff they ran off with?” the woman said.
“Dunno. Looked like what you’d find in a scrap heap.” There was a clang as the man kicked the abandoned stewpot. “No surprise the poor brats trapped on the Dark Lord’s nightmare island don’t have much to occupy them. . . .”
They reached a grove of trees, and the voices faded. Noa had no idea where they were going. The pathless bracken was rough against her bare legs, and also, inconveniently, it seemed to be a favored gathering place for iguanas. Noa began to feel like she was doing more hopping than running.
Finally, once her panic wore off, she made a beeline for the nearest hill. They were almost at the coast again, and to the south stood a row of basalt sea cliffs.
“Here,” Noa gasped when finally they reached a patch of elevated ground that was relatively clear of lizards. Below them, a tangle of mangroves spilled into the sea.
Ignoring the stitch in her side and the black dots swimming across her eyes, Noa grabbed a rock and drove the wheel into the earth. She took the mast from Mite, who had been ineffectively banging it against the ground, and twisted it around until it stuck.
“All right,” Noa said to the island grimly, taking the wheel. “Let’s see if you have any life in you. Raise the sail, Mite.”
Mite’s hands moved to the rigging. Then she froze, her gaze fixed on something beyond Noa’s shoulder.
Noa turned. Atop the nearest sea cliff, perhaps fifty yards away, stood Gabriela, Xavier’s First Mage. Her long blue-black hair billowed in the breeze, as did the red cloak pinned with a golden star like a crossed X—the king’s symbol. It winked in the light.
She was looking right at them.
Noa’s heart thudded. She hadn’t seen Gabriela in a year, since the day Julian had discovered that the talented apprentice who had snuck onto his island—and into his trust—claiming to be a supporter was in fact one of King Xavier’s
