“It’s a ghost ship,” Mutter Cabe insisted in a whisper. The crewmen standing on the deck of the Chase could see no lights, no people, nothing aboard the Camadan but darkness. The moon shone brightly; the wind flapped what few sails were unfurled. The Camadan moved slowly through the water in a southeasterly direction, but not a soul tended the sheets, nor the yards, nor the wheel, nor the crow’s nest.
“Shut up, Mutter,” Delaney said, but he stared hard with the rest, hoping it wasn’t so.
“Ahoy!” Captain Hand shouted through the mist. The Camadan was certainly within earshot since the Chase was upwind of her. “Thunderation, who’s got a voice that carries?” he asked. He looked around for Jonas Deal. “Where’s Deal?”
“He hasn’t moved from the Captain’s door except to make water,” Andrew Haas said quietly. Others laughed, but only those who thought he was exaggerating.
“Ahoy!” Andrew Haas yelled impressively.
No answer.
“The mainsail’s gone completely. So’s the foresail,” Haas pointed out.
“Ring the ship’s bell,” Hand ordered.
Andrew Haas obeyed, but the clanging echo received no more response than had greeted the hails.
“Where in blazes did they all go?” Hand asked, seeming angered. They were far from Achawuk territory now. And if the Achawuk had attacked the Camadan, they’d have burned the ship. Wouldn’t they? The Chase would sail past her within a few minutes, and while the great cat still had the muscle, Hand didn’t have enough crew left to come about in short order, or with any measure of precision. He couldn’t risk ramming her.
“I’ll take a boat,” Packer volunteered. “See what’s aboard.”
Hand grimaced. “No, it’s my ship. I’ll go.”
“Begging your pardon, Captain,” Andrew Haas said carefully, “but Captain Wilkins is ill. If you go aboard and find some danger…well, I believe we’d all rather the Chase had a captain than the Camadan.”
The other crewmen agreed quietly.
“I’ll go with him,” Haas then offered.
“Ahh, you can’t go either, Haas. I need you to help me get this beast hove-to. Who will go with Throme?”
“I’ll go,” Delaney said immediately.
John Hand nodded his thanks. “Good. One other.”
Silence.
Then, “Mutter’ll go,” Delaney offered. “He loves ghost ships.” The men laughed as Mutter turned deep red.
Hand didn’t laugh. “Fine. Throme, Delaney, and Cabe.” Mutter’s eye grew big, then narrowed on Delaney as the others chortled. “Go armed,” Hand added. “Here, my pistol’s loaded. Doesn’t look like you’ll do much good with a sword.” He held it out to Packer by the barrel, but the young man simply drew his rapier, smoothly and easily, falling into a perfect fighting stance, left-handed. Hand smiled, returned his pistol to his belt. “As you wish.”
Mutter Cabe got no sympathy. Ghosts were one thing, orders another. The men were happy to help him find his way to the jolly boat.
Within three minutes, Delaney and Mutter Cabe were rowing with Packer Throme across the rolling black water toward the tall, dark ship, their way lit with three lanterns. Their oars—little more than paddles, really—dripped, then dove into the cold green water, then dripped again. It was slow going. The jolly was the largest of the ship’s boats, equipped with sails and rations for a long voyage. It was not the preferred vessel for a quick foray, but it was the only one left. The longboat had gone with the huntsmen, one shallop with Talon, and the other with Marcus Pile.
But they made headway, and as they neared the Camadan, their mood was overshadowed by the emptiness of the huge, rocking vessel. The silence, except for the creaking of masts and flapping of canvas, turned their blood cold. This was not right. This was not what tall ships were created for, to be alone, dark, and adrift.
Talon watched the jolly approach. She sat perfectly still, blending into deep shadows on the quarterdeck. It was an amazing thing to her, this sudden appearance of the Trophy Chase, and then, more amazing yet, the approach of Packer Throme. There was meaning in it, destiny. He was being reeled to her, or she was being blown to him. The horse that had carried her to the docks, the Camadan waiting for her there, the wind that had blown her straight out to sea, the Trophy Chase passing within a few hundred yards, and now Packer Throme paddling to meet her.
She hadn’t really sailed the ship. She had let it drift. She was heading east, that was all that mattered for now. There was food and water aboard, enough for months of travel for a single person.
Fenter had abandoned her with a splash before they’d cleared the point at the Bay of Mann, jumping ship the first time Talon let him out of her sight. Apparently, he preferred to take his chances deserting his post rather than as the lone object of Talon’s attention.
And this other crewman, the sick one Fenter had mentioned, had not shown himself, if he was on board at all. She had looked for him briefly, in the sick bay, in the forecastle, in the various officers’ cabins. She had ordered him to show himself, but he hadn’t, and she hadn’t found him. She had little desire to hunt him down. If he was aboard, he was hiding. She’d find him eventually.
She watched the jolly boat approach, felt the rhythm of the sea, breathed in the thick, salt air. She had longed for another chance to kill the fair-haired boy, and now she would have it. But she felt nothing, no joy in the hunt, no seething anger. It puzzled her.
It was interesting to her that Packer had been sent out to investigate what danger might be lurking in a dark and silent ship. Cabe and Delaney she knew; they were but deckhands. So it was Packer who was performing the duty of a security officer. He had not only won acceptance aboard ship, he had replaced her. His sword had proven itself, undoubtedly. Scat trusted him. So much for her warnings.
And yet, even with that knowledge, she felt no deep or burning passion, no kindled desire for revenge. She would kill Packer, of course. She must. But this sense of calm, this resignation to the inevitable, was new to her.
Delaney was a good sword. Mutter Cabe, superstitious though he was, was also a fearless fighter. She would likely need to kill all three of them if she were to kill Packer. It seemed to her a waste. She wished these other two had not come along.
She pondered her own thoughts for a moment. Why did she want to spare Delaney and Mutter? Why did it matter to her? They were good men, sure, but she had killed many good men. Where had her rage gone, her focus, her deep fires? She was the Firefish, forever hunting, alight with electrical energy as she prepared to attack. But that energy seemed missing now.
It was because Senslar Zendoda was dead, she thought. That was the reason for it. There was a great relief in that. It was the end of a quest, the conclusion of a great hunt.
She tried not to think about his final moments, about his last words to her, his first and last embrace of her. Since it happened, she had refused to grant it any validity, refused even to consider it. It had been a mind trick; it had been his final, desperate attempt to use the Vast mythology to weaken her, and she would not allow herself to succumb. She would not allow him to prevail in his death, where she had planned for so long to prevail. Where she had in fact prevailed.
The jolly bobbed closer. She could see Packer’s eyes as he turned to scan the ship; she could hear the water drip from the oars. Still she didn’t move.
She felt a strong pull toward that moment, Senslar’s last. There was a deep melancholy in it somehow; there was a deep pain she was not accustomed to feeling, deeper than physical anguish, like a deep, clean cut to the soul. Of course, she told herself, that was what Senslar wanted. He would want her to go back there and think about it, relive it, absorb the possibility that truth lurked within his words. Just the idea that light, comfort, and hope might be found there would be attractive to anyone.
But she would not go. She could not. It was a lie and a trick. And even if it were true, why would she want it? It was weakness, it invited pain on a level she could not begin to embrace, a kind of pain far more destructive than any she had ever inflicted or endured. She hardened herself against it. She was Talon; she was the predator. And she had work yet to do.
She lost sight of the jolly as it closed in on the Camadan’s hull. She heard its oars splash, then clatter against the gunwales as the men pulled them in, preparing to board.
Still she didn’t move.
My little child. Oh, how I have missed you.
There. She had listened again. She heard the voice in her mind. It had no power. She felt nothing, nothing but the cold mist around her, creeping through her.
Delaney was able to throw a loop of rope around the anchor fluke, banging it against the hull as he did. Every noise seemed amplified and out of place in the mist. The jolly pitched and yawed and slammed into the Camadan’s hull, grating angrily. Mutter Cabe, despite his whispered misgivings, was now grim and determined. Packer again saw the warrior in him.
Before the three had time to discuss a plan, Delaney had started climbing the rope hand over hand. He reached the anchor and stood on it, then pulled himself up and over the rail. “Hang on, I think there’s a rope ladder in the bosun’s locker.” They heard his footsteps drift away. After a silence that lasted far too long, they heard footsteps returning. The rope ladder came over the rail, and Packer and Mutter climbed up, Packer one-handed, Mutter struggling with the lanterns.
As they came over the rail they found Delaney standing with arms on hips, looking up at the sails blankly. “They been struck,” he said. “Someone took ’em down, prob’ly to replace ’em.”
Packer shrugged. “So?” Seemed logical.
“Who struck ’em? And why?”
No one answered. “Well, why don’t we have a look around,” Packer suggested. He held up his lantern. They had climbed over the starboard rail onto the main deck, so the quarterdeck was up to their left, the foredeck and the forecastle up to their right. There was no sign of anyone.
“I’ll take the fore,” Delaney offered, drawing his sword. He was thinking that the forecastle was likely to present the greatest danger.
“Fine. I’ll go aft, and I suppose I’ll meet you back here before we go below?”
“What about me?” Mutter asked.
“You stay on lookout,” Delaney told him. “If one of us has trouble, we’ll call out, you come to help.”
John Hand and the crew worked diligently to turn the Chase. She had swept past the Camadan, and they would need to bring her about and catch up again with the drifting ship before an attempt could be made to heave to, matching the Camadan’s negligible progress through the water. But they would be several long minutes gone; it could take as much as half an hour to finish the maneuver.
Delaney swung his lantern through the darkness of the forecastle. Shadows played along the hammocks and hooks, but it was empty. “Ahoy! Anyone here?” he asked, his voice hoarse and quiet in the flickering light. “This is Delaney, from the Chase.” The forecastle had not been abandoned hastily, he noted. Most of the crew’s gear was gone, and what was left was packed neatly away, as though its owners might reappear at any moment.
He thought he heard footsteps in the hall. “Ahoy! Anyone there?” He went to investigate.
Packer went through the officer’s quarters aft before heading for the Captain’s quarters, his sword drawn in his left hand, the lantern in his bandaged right. He realized after poking a lantern into three or four doors that whoever was aboard, if there were someone aboard, would most likely hole up where the comfort and the rum were most plentiful. That would be the Captain’s cabin, which opened out onto the quarterdeck.
Packer looked around the decks as he climbed the companionway steps to the quarterdeck. Mutter stood where he had been left, holding the lantern and looking out to sea for the Chase.
The Captain’s quarters were dark; no light came from around or under the hatch. Packer paused outside to listen. Hearing nothing, he slowly pushed on the door, swinging his lantern in as the hatch groaned. Nothing and no one. He entered. Captain Hand’s quarters here were smaller than Scat’s on the Chase by a wide margin. He had no saloon with accompanying table, no storage closet for wine and ale and spirits. Other than some additional square footage of floor space, little here recommended it over any of the other officer’s quarters.
It had a bunk, which had been left unmade, the bedclothes in a heap at the foot. A map table stood in the center of the room, little more than a writing desk. A small wooden cabinet with a glass front containing two swords and a musket stood on the near side of the bunk. On the far side was a shelf of books, and a smaller shelf of bottles.
But Packer was drawn to the desk. He held the lantern over it. The chart of the seas still lay open, showing the course of the Camadan plotted into the Achawuk waters. Nothing since. The captain’s log lay beside it, also open. The last entry read, “Docked safely at Port of Mann. Expect one to two weeks for refit. Crew given leave. Fenter left on guard.”
It was initialed BD. It was dated yesterday.
Yesterday? Had the ship simply drifted out to sea? Or had it been stolen?
Then Packer heard a whining sound, followed by the deep thud of a heavy object plunging into the water. Something, or someone, had gone overboard. There was a creak, a crack, and a groan, and the ship shuddered. And then all was quiet and still.
Packer ran down the stairs to the deck. Mutter was gone. His lantern stood on the floorboards where it had been standing a moment ago. Packer’s heart pounded in his chest. He ran to the gunwale, glanced behind him to be sure no one was near, then looked over the rail. The jolly was gone. How had it…? Then he saw the anchor rope, taut and trailing into the sea. Chunks of wood, planking and hull, floated behind them in the water.
Packer spun around again, expecting an attack. There was no one. “Mutter? Where are you?” he asked. Someone had let the anchor’s windlass spin free; that was the whining sound he’d heard. The anchor had plunged into the ocean, and then the jolly, tied securely to it, had been pulled under by its weight, creaking and finally breaking as it went under.
Packer waited a few moments, during which he realized the full extent of his predicament. He didn’t know where Mutter or Delaney was. If they were in trouble, he needed to go help them. If he went looking for them, he’d be inviting a sudden attack from almost anywhere on this dark ship. The Chase was now visible, but still several thousand yards away, and anyway it had no more boats to send.
“Packer!”
He heard the muffled cry coming from below deck, perhaps from the forecastle. There were other words, but he couldn’t make them out. He couldn’t recognize the voice; it sounded like Delaney, but he couldn’t be sure. He started for the forecastle deck, sword in one hand, lantern in the other. He left Mutter’s lantern behind.
The darkness beyond the light of his lantern seemed absolute. He was easily visible to any foe; any foe was utterly invisible to him. But he didn’t dare put his lantern down. He didn’t know the ship; he didn’t know the hiding places and the alleyways and the doorways where an attacker might conceal himself. He needed the light, it was his only hope, even though it made him completely vulnerable.
Something about his predicament seemed right to him, and gave him comfort, though he didn’t have the time or the inclination to ponder it. He did ponder, at least briefly, what God had done in just the last few days. He did think about the power God had showed when Packer had put away his sword. He did think about his need to trust God now as he had in the barrel, as he had in the rigging, and not to take up the sword as he had with Delaney in the hold. He wasn’t sure he could do that now. His heart was pounding and his blood was high.
He wanted God to do whatever God wanted. Packer prayed he would do no harm, unless that was what God intended. He prayed he would have the courage to do the right thing, the selfless thing, to sacrifice himself in order to help Delaney and Mutter, and not just to protect himself. But protecting himself right now was the overwhelming instinct of his entire being.
“Packer!” The voice was urgent, and though it was still muffled he felt certain now it was Delaney calling out to him.
“I’m coming!” Packer called back. He moved as quickly as he could to the forecastle deck, and then, swallowing hard, he started down into the forecastle itself.
“Packer, it’s Talon! Talon is on board this ship!”
The words were icicles to his soul, putting every hair on end. But he did not slow as he moved through the cramped passageway toward the voice. He also did not cease to look both behind and in front of him, ready for the swordswoman to spring out at any moment.
“Where are you?” Packer called.
“In here! She’s locked us in the brig!”
Both of them were alive when he found them, and for the most part, well. The brig was a dank eight-foot-by-eight-foot cell in a dank room of about twice that size. The cell was a panel of iron bars fronting a bench and a pot. The place smelled like urine. Mutter sat on the floorboards and leaned against the bench, holding the back of his head. Delaney stood at the bars, embarrassed and frustrated, but uninjured.
“What happened?”
“She surprised me in the dark,” the sailor said glumly, and clenched his jaw. “I never had a chance. She led me here with a knife at my throat, threatening to slice me open if I even breathed loudly.”
“Is he all right?” Packer asked as he shook the great padlock that clasped the iron bars together at its entrance.
Delaney shook his head. “She must have cold cocked him from behind. I don’t think he knows yet what hit him.”
“Did you see what she did with the key?”
“No. Took it with her, I think.”
Packer swept the damp room with his lantern, but other than the two men’s swords, which had been left on the floor just out of their reach, there was little here: a small writing table without drawers, an empty cabinet built in the wall, an empty peg above it that might have been where the key was kept.
Packer kicked the swords close so Delaney could reach them. “These will help if she comes back. But I’ll have to find her.”
“It’s what she wants.” He frowned deeply.
“She said that?”
Delaney shook his head. “She could a’ killed us both. But she didn’t, and she let us call you here. She wanted us to call you. She’s waiting, Packer. Probably not far.” Delaney was silent. “I’m sorry, brother. All a sudden, she was there.”
“It’s not your fault. The Chase will be back soon. I could just—” He heard a distant crack, or a pop. “What was that?”
They listened again, heard another soft pop, perhaps more distant.
“No, it’s not.” They both looked at Mutter Cabe. He did not open his eyes to look at them. He seemed to be speaking in his sleep. “It’s fire. You can smell it.”
Sure enough, Packer could now smell the smoke; very faint, but very real.
The ship was burning.
She sat and thought as the ship burned. She sat at the foot of the stairs to the quarterdeck. The quarterdeck and everything above and behind her was aflame. Across the main deck, the forecastle was also alight. She had set the fires. As soon as she saw Packer disappear below, she had gone to the ship’s supply of lantern oil and poured it out fore and aft, leaving only the main deck for her final fight.
She thought about that, her final fight. It would happen here, now. She could have chosen deception; she could have put on the mantle of her old role, put herself at Scat Wilkins’ service, made herself out to have simply returned from her mission. She could have hidden what she’d done to the Swordmaster of Nearing Vast, could have lied about how she came to be afloat here on the Camadan, alone. Scat knew nothing about her accomplishments of the last few days.
But eventually, she would be found out. She was an assassin. She had been seen, and could be identified. She was a killer, but not a coward. She would deceive to kill, but she would not deceive simply to protect herself.
So she was determined that this was the place, and now was the time, to play it out to the end. She did not think about what would happen when it was done. Somewhere in the burning ruin of the Camadan, when Packer Throme was dead, she would make her escape. A way would open up. It always had.
She felt now, deep inside her, that her mission was at an end. There would be a new mission, surely. But the ceaseless, ravenous desire at the root of her being was dissipating. She knew that now. She hadn’t killed the two crewmen, hadn’t even wanted to. The gale that had always blown hard into her sails had blown over. She did not know what it meant; it was not something she had anticipated. But there it was.
So she thought about how here, now, tonight, when Packer was as dead as Senslar Zendoda, she would prove, finally, the folly of believing that a weak God was somehow powerful. And proof, she had to admit, was now needed. The boy had escaped death at her hands. The girl had escaped her too. Her full intention in both cases had been to kill them. She had the will, she had the power, and she had had the opportunity. But both of them trusted in this broken God, and both were still very much alive. From one point of view, certainly from their point of view, these escapes would be seen as evidence that they did not believe in vain.
Senslar Zendoda had not escaped her, of course. But his death had not seemed entirely within her control either. It was not as she had expected it would be. And now, there was this twist of fate that put her directly into the path of the Chase, and brought Packer to her very feet. Did their God do this? Or was it simply a strange sequence of events, a coincidence? There would be one final test. She would kill Packer. Her strength would be shown to be far greater than his strength; that she did not doubt. But she needed to be sure that her strength was also far greater than his weakness.
As she prepared to test the very heart of the mythology of the Nearing Vast religion, she thought about their sacred stories. She thought of the ravenous lions that could not kill the prophet Daniel. She thought of the fiery furnace that could not kill three helpless devotees of their God. She thought of iron bars that burst open, that could not hold disciples when great forces were arrayed against them. And she thought of the greatest victory of weakness over strength in the mythology, the resurrection of the tortured and crucified weakling, the meek Prince of Peace.
These were all just tales, of course. They played their role in the mind control of Vast leadership. But if in fact there were, by some chance, a great God behind them, a Being stronger and more powerful than the Firefish, than the storms, than Talon, than death itself…if she were somehow wrong, and the fools and idiots were somehow right, she would like to know before she died. If the Vast leadership used such religion to their own ends, and yet in that religion was truth, which they abused, she would like to know that as well.
Even knowing, she would raise her sword in defiance to such a Power. Surely she would. But she would like to know with whom she had contended these many years.
The time had come. Packer descended the steps from the forecastle deck, his sword in his hand.
“Let the others go,” he said as he approached. He unwrapped the bandage from his right hand. He would fight her in his strength. But ice seemed to wrap his heart as he watched Talon sitting there, watching him, waiting, the ship burning above her. Packer fought against an unreasoning fear. “You want me, I’m here. Release Mutter and Delaney. They’re good and loyal crewmen.” He put his sword in his right hand, felt the pain, fought through it. He moved toward her.
She just watched him approach. He stopped ten feet from her. She did not stand, did not draw her sword. Instead she reached into her jacket and pulled out a tress of hair, tied in a ribbon. She tossed it at his feet. She pulled out a red beret, with a dark stain on it, and threw it at his feet as well.
Packer picked up the items, keeping his eyes on Talon, and looked at the evidence she’d brought just for him. The long lock of hair was Panna’s, pocketed while the girl’s hair was being cut and styled. She had intended to put the girl’s blood on its ribbon, just as she had bloodied the beret of the Swordmaster after his death. But no matter; Packer couldn’t know what had or had not been her plan.
His fear melted instantly, replaced by deep pangs of grief. This was Panna’s hair. No doubt. Touching it brought him back to her, brought him back to her bench, his fingers running through her soft, dark hair. It smelled of her. And Senslar’s beret. Seeing it brought the swordmaster back, the smiling eyes, the calm demeanor, the gentle, firm command.
“I promised to find those you love, those who have helped you. And so I did as I promised. But I added one element, for my own satisfaction.” She took a folded piece of parchment from her jacket pocket, and opened it up. She showed him the image on it, then tossed it toward him. The wind caught it, and he put his foot on it before it could blow away, leaned down, picked it up.
The fire now crackling above the duo burned hotter, illuminated the image of Packer Throme. Wanted for Murder.
She smiled as the full extent of her power rolled over him. “I did not kill them, you see? You did.”
Packer looked at her. How could she have managed such a thing? But it all fell into place quickly, coldly, like a firing pin clicking within a well-oiled pistol. The scheme was masterful in its evil. Talon had arrived ashore and moved secretly. Whatever she did, whomever she killed, no one would know who did it. They would only know that some swordsman was on the loose at exactly the time Packer Throme, who had carefully proven to everyone his expert swordsmanship, had disappeared. Packer could imagine Dog swearing to everyone that Packer was the guilty one. He could imagine Pastor Seline’s broken heart. He could imagine it all.
“I also promised to kill you. And so, now I will.” She stood and drew her sword.
Packer just looked at her, tears in his eyes. “But why, Talon?”
She recognized the question. It came from the heart of his weakness. “Because I am strong, and you are weak. Because I am strong, and they were weak. Because there is no God who will fight for them, as there is no God who will fight for you.”
He was crippled inside. He had no will to fight her. “I don’t understand. You killed them only because they are weak?”
She stared back at him. “No. Because they pretend that their weakness is strength. Because they believe a God will save them in their weakness, and they teach others this stupidity.”
“Panna was weak. But Senslar Zendoda was not.”
She swallowed. “So it would seem.” And yet Panna lived, and Senslar did not. Senslar had fought her, and Panna had fled. Senslar had fought her. And so far, Packer had not. The pattern was unmistakable.
And then Packer did the one thing that Talon didn’t expect, the only thing that could send a shiver down her spine. He dropped his sword.
“You have killed me already, Talon.” He was quite prepared to die. He did not want to defeat her, if that meant he would be required to live on to see the results of his own pride, his own sin: the names of Panna and of Senslar added to the long, brutal roll of the dead in the Captain’s log, or on cold marble on some hillside…added to all the deaths, Vast and Achawuk, caused by his presumption, by his climbing into that barrel. Even if he could defeat Talon, then what? He would be tried for the murders of the two people he cared about most. No, he had no desire to fight, or to win. He was finished.
Talon stepped close, raised her sword, put the tip to Packer’s chest. He did not notice the tremor in it as she did so. He could not see her heart race. He could not know the image that rose in her mind, the memory of an embrace that reached into places she did not want to be reached. “Fight me!”
“No. I will die if God so wills it. If He wants me dead, not even you can keep me alive. If He wants me alive, you and a thousand Drammune warriors couldn’t kill me.”
She laughed. “I have killed, and I have given life. I have saved you, and now I will kill you. No God will do this. Just me.”
He shook his head. “I put myself in His hands, Talon. Not yours.”
And now the moment had come. A single thrust, and it was over. Proof would be hers. And yet, what would he do with a sword through his chest? What would he say? What look would be in his eyes? She saw in him now the same determination she had seen in Senslar Zendoda, the same fearlessness, the same focus, the same sadness, the same power. And yes, that’s what it was. It was not the power to crush and kill; it was something altogether different. She remembered Senslar’s iron embrace, that inescapable, overwhelming gentleness, that voice, soft as a lullaby in her ear.
Then Packer spread his arms wide, and opened his hands. Talon flinched. The image of the dying Christ, willingly giving Himself to death, was all she could see. Her eyes were drawn to his right hand, the damage there. He was helpless. But the power of God…She looked back at his face, unable to come to grips with what stood before her.
Packer saw fear. He saw terror in Talon’s eyes. He didn’t understand it. And then God granted him a vision, much as He had granted one to Senslar Zendoda. Packer saw within her the helplessness, the pain, the anguish that lived at the root of her soul. He didn’t understand it, but he saw it. He knew.
For the first time, she appeared before him as something other than evil incarnate, something more than a soulless killer. She was a woman who was once a child, who had been hurt, who had hardened herself, who had lashed out in anger, who had schooled herself in vengeance, and who was not yet beyond redemption.
Packer smiled gently. “Your Father in heaven loves you.” Packer meant to speak of her heavenly Father, of God, and couldn’t know what meaning his actual words conveyed. But Talon reacted as though he had hit her in the stomach. Her breath left her, and she hunched forward, eyes wild. She shook her head, and backed up to the burning stairs. The heat of the flames, now licking down like the sun, was strong.
“No!” she said. She kept her sword out in front of her, to ward him off. This worried Packer, not for him, but for her. He stepped forward, back into range, back to where the tip of her sword touched his chest. His arms were still spread wide. He would welcome death. But even more now, he would welcome her, if she would embrace life.
“Whatever you’ve done, He loves you.”
“No!” she cried again. It was as though Senslar, her father, had come to this boy and had told him all that had happened. But he couldn’t have! Packer Throme couldn’t know!
But her real fear was not that this was Senslar speaking to her, nor that Packer knew, and spoke the same. Her true fear was that this was the very voice of God. The God of weakness, the God of Nearing Vast, appearing before her, speaking through Packer. Her fear was that she was directly in contact with, directly in conflict with, the God of the universe.
If that were so, then she would address Him.
“Love is a lie!”
“No. Love is the power of God.” He found himself aching for her, wanting desperately for her to understand. He dropped his arms to his side. “You’ve been blind. You’ve believed a lie.”
“I have killed a thousand men, and You have not stopped me.”
Packer now understood that she was questioning God, speaking to God, not him. But he also heard a question she didn’t ask aloud. “He died to wash away the wrongs of the whole world. Even yours, Talon.”
She shook her head, and stepped backward up the first two steps. The heat was unbearable, the crackling flames just behind her.
“Stop now. Put down your sword.”
“I hate you. I despise your weakness.” But there was a wince of pain in her voice.
“When I am weak, then I am strong.”
“Lies! Yours is a religion for fools!”
“The wisdom of men is foolishness to God. Talon, the world is upside down. The powerful who seem to live at the top are really at the bottom. God’s power is with the poor and the humble. And the meek.”
“That is nonsense!” Talon climbed another two steps. The heat of the flames at her back was now painful, almost impossibly so. But the light in front of her was more painful yet.
“You abandoned me!” She grimaced, her face was contorted, her pain and anger now unveiled to the foundations of her being. “You never cared for me! I was hurt and alone, and you never came!”
“I’m here now.”
Her eyes grew wild. That was Senslar’s voice; those were his eyes that looked at her.
She backed up onto a step that was now in flames, still several steps from the top of the stairway, from the quarterdeck itself. Packer put out a hand toward her, wanting to pull her back, but she pulled away, and then in the blink of an eye, lost her footing and tripped backward. Packer climbed the three steps in a leap, and reached for her as she tumbled into the flames.
She dropped her sword, and reached out to him, a look on her face that was a simple plea for help. Her hair ignited; a blazing halo. Packer lunged forward, but the floor below her, already ablaze, gave way with a loud crack. And she was gone into darkness, darkness that suddenly erupted into flame and smoke that billowed upward like a cloud.
Packer looked up, following the flame and the circle of sparks as it spiraled into the night sky. “Talon!” For the first time, he felt the full intensity of the heat. It roared and billowed at him, forcing him back down the stairs. He looked around him. The entire ship was now fully ablaze.
Across dark water, visible in the light of the flames, he could see the crew gathered on the deck of the Trophy Chase, watching wide-eyed.
Something grabbed Packer’s elbow. He looked down, saw a hand, looked up, saw Delaney’s face. “Let’s go!” Delaney yelled.
Packer let himself be led to the rail. The flames seemed to be all around them.
“Jump!” Delaney plunged feetfirst over the side. Packer followed. His sword he left behind him, resting on the burning deck.
Packer surfaced from the cold wet darkness, back to a world of fire and water, smoke and mist. Delaney was there, grinning as broadly as Packer had ever seen him.
Packer spit saltwater. “You’re safe! Did you find the key?”
“Didn’t need a key!” Delaney answered happily, pointing in the direction of the Chase. “Look!”
Not one but two heads bobbed in the water ahead of them. One of them was Mutter Cabe; the other Packer didn’t recognize. The man’s head was plastered in a wet, white bandage.
“He’s the carpenter’s mate!” Delaney exclaimed, sputtering with delight. “He got the tools. Pried us out!”
And then the head turned to face him, and Packer recognized the boy. “Marcus? Marcus Pile!”
A broad grin came back in answer.