“Fitz Crossing is closest,” the thief answered at the wheel. “We could be there by morning. But no doubt that Shadowknight and his corsairs will guess our course and head there, too. They may even reach the island before we do.”
Delia wrung her hands. “We must take the risk.”
“No,” Tylar croaked. “We make straight for the Steps. We can reach the First Land in two days’ time.”
Rogger stared back at him. “Of course, there’s a third choice. We’re free… with a boat. Why not head to some distant backwater where no one knows us?”
Tylar met the thief’s gaze. A part of him was drawn to this dream. But his mind’s eye kept coming back to Grayl, bare toes swinging overhead. He slowly shook his head.
“Why not?” Rogger asked. “Live our lives with no past.”
“Or future.” He swallowed hard, a bitter taste in his mouth. “I’ve been there before… the place you say you want to go.”
“Where’s that?”
“Where I came from. Where I’d been hiding. Some distant backwater. A place like Punt. I don’t want to go back.” As he spoke those words, he felt a noose around his own neck cut free. Something loosed in him and dropped away. “We go,” he said, putting every last bit of firmness in his voice.
Rogger slowly nodded.
Delia looked less convinced. “More than anyone, I want to expose what happened to Meeryn, but you must rest. I found a cache of supplies, old from the look of them, at the back of the Fin. There was powdered nyssaroot for pain.”
“Nyssa? I’ll sleep for days.”
“Exactly. You’ll leave your wounds undisturbed and give your body time to mend. I insist.”
Tylar frowned, sensing a core of determination in her that he didn’t have the strength to fight. He nodded. The world spun with even that small motion.
“Good. You should be feeling the numbness in a few moments.”
“What…?” He glanced to the abandoned cup. “You already-”
The world rolled backward, darkening.
“Sleep,” she urged him.
He had no choice.
A timeless span later, Tylar woke to snoring. It was not his own. He turned his head.
Rogger curled on the floor beside him, nestled in a pile of netting. Each breath rattled in and sputtered out, regular as a well-wound clock. The thief smelled ripe-or maybe it was Tylar himself.
He shifted.
The only light in the cabin was the perpetual glow of the skeletal tubing. Beyond the Fin’s window, the waters were inky dark, except for the speckling of spinning bits of phosphorescence. Tiny sea sprites chased and harried the stranger in their midst.
Delia stood silhouetted against the window, chewing on the knuckle of one finger as she inspected the tangled mekanical heart of the vessel. She was mumbling, in midargument with herself.
Tylar shifted, aching all over, but it was a wooly discomfort. Not sharp. He tried sitting. The world shivered, but it settled quickly.
Delia turned.
“You’re awake.”
“I think so… Ask me again in a few moments.”
“Would you like some water? Do you need to relieve yourself?”
He nodded to both but asked only for water. He couldn’t face her trying to preserve his morning humours. Delia helped him up into a seat. The effort was like climbing a mountain with a full pack of rocks. He sat heavily with the cup in hand.
“This is just water, right?”
She smiled and nodded.
“How long have I been asleep?”
“Through an entire day. It’s night again. But the rest has done you well. You look good.”
“I wish I could say the same about how I feel.”
Concern crinkled her brow.
He held up a hand. “No, I’m doing better. Truly. Don’t worry.”
Her face relaxed. In this moment, her simple beauty shone. A softness and clarity that was pleasing to look upon.
Tylar cleared his throat, suddenly awkward with such thoughts. She was near to half his age. He glanced to the mekanicals. “How is the Fin holding up?”
Delia sighed. “We lost a few tubes. Shattered away. But if we don’t press the works, the rest should hold.”
“And the blood?”
“We’re fine. Plenty. But it’ll take another two days to reach the Steps.”
Tylar didn’t complain. They were moving, safe for the moment. And much of it was due to the woman seated across from him. He was impressed with her resourcefulness and skill.
He motioned to the crystal tank. “How did you come to know so much about alchemy? Were you schooled in it?”
She shrugged, shook her head, then glanced to her knees, pulling into herself. “My… my father had an interest in alchemy.”
From the hunch of her shoulders, there was more history than the words implied. Something unhealed. Only now did Tylar realize how reticent Delia had been about her past. Then again, he had been no more forthcoming, having been orphaned himself, birthed as his mother drowned, his father dead. His own past had no family stories or histories, so he had not missed the same from Delia… until now.
“Where did he practice his alchemy?”
She seemed to shrink further. “He was not an alchemist, only a dabbler. But his interest became mine when I was very young… before my mother died of the pox. She was a healer.” She added this last quickly, proudly. “She caught the pox during the Scourge, going into places others wouldn’t tread for fear of contagion.”
Tylar did a quick calculation. That meant she lost her mother when she was only eight birth years.
“After that, something died in my father. He sent me off to my mother’s family, a land away, a family who hardly knew me. He took back his name and left me my mother’s. I was not the easiest child at the time.”
Heartbroken and angry, Tylar guessed. He could relate. He had been bounced around from home to home himself. But he recognized a deeper pain in her. He had never known his family, long dead and buried. Hers had cast her away like so much refuse. A cruelty that surpassed tragedy.
“How did you end up in the Summering Isles?”
She shrugged. “My mother’s family could not control me. I was sent to the Abbleberry Conclave, where I was eventually chosen.” A small smile broke through the gloom. “One of the happiest days of my life.”
“And what became of your father?”
Her smile vanished.
“I’m sorry. I’m intruding…”
“No, it’s just… we haven’t spoken since I was sent off. I doubt he even knows what became of me. The only thing I have left from him is my interest in alchemical studies.”
“Yet he wasn’t an alchemist himself?”
“No.” She glanced to Tylar, her voice bitter. She pointed three fingers toward his face, toward his stripes. “He was a Shadowknight. Like you.”
Tylar felt a sting from her words, old anger glancingly aimed at him. He fumbled for words. “What was his name?”
Delia shook her head. “I won’t speak it.”
“What of his family name then? The one he took from you.”
She answered leadenly. “It was Fields.”
What little blood that still coursed in Tylar’s veins drained to his feet. He fought to keep from yelling. “Not
