63

Ash

Shadows jump up the walls. They rise from the single light overhead as it rocks back and forth in time with the floor. We’re still at sea, no rescue in sight.

I wait for my inner voice to agree, or disagree, but there’s only silence there. I take slow, deep breaths, calming my mind as the seasickness melts away. Now all we have to do is escape.

I try to tuck my feet under me and sit up but am stopped short by leg irons. The metal cuts into my ankles and restricts movement, not to mention blood flow, again. I scoot toward the anchor point of the chain and bend my knees. It brings some relief. The floor is wet and smells of urine. So does the skirt of my torn lavender dress. I groan, realizing my bladder is empty. Does Palrio treat prisoners this poorly? At least I’m not nauseated anymore. There is only so much humiliation I can take in one day, or two.

I manage to lift both manacled hands and push hair out of my face. The ponytail is long gone, though I can’t recall if it was in one or not since I last woke up a free person. How long ago was that?

My inner voice, who would know, remains silent.

The voices I catch in the distance confirm the foreign nature of my captors. On the first ship, the crew spoke Palrion, making them my people. My own people who betrayed me? It makes me want to spit every curse I know, in every language, which could take all day, but my mouth is too dry to start. I listen harder. Definitely Sierrak.

Footfalls echo down the hold ladder and come this way. Instinct tells me to hide but that’s impossible, being chained to the floor as I am, so I do the next best thing: feign sleep.

“Why can’t we torture her?” a female voice asks. “She’s Palrion and a traveler. Doesn’t make sense.”

“Orders. We keep her alive and deliver her to them.” The second voice is slightly slurred, and I suspect a speech impairment or alcohol consumption, maybe both.

“Who’s to know if we ask a few questions? Use a little bite, a little gash here and there, where it can’t be seen?”

“Too risky. She’s dangerous.”

The woman laughs, and I stifle one of my own. “Dangerous? Even a High Savant is without their phantom at sea, and this one doesn’t wear robes.”

Their boots stop in front of me.

“She’s a caller, apparently. From Aku.”

“Dressed like that?” The woman moves closer.

They think I’m Tyche? That doesn’t bode well considering what Tann did to her grandmother and his prisoners from Aku. I wonder if I can reason with them.

“She ain’t calling anything now,” the man says.

A boot nudges my shoulder and I sit up so fast they both step back. My heart’s pounding and I have no idea how I managed the move. As soon as my eyes focus, I wish I’d not reacted that way, but it was instinct and I’m up now, alert. No going back.

“Show me your hands,” the woman says. She and the man have knives drawn.

I hold up my manacled hands.

The two pull quick breaths and step farther away. “Rune chains,” the woman whispers, then snaps her mouth shut as if speaking leaves her vulnerable to attack.

I turn the iron cuffs to the light. They indeed are covered in runes. They remind me of something, like I should know what they mean, but the memory is gone, like so many of them in days’ past. It’s like walking into a fog. But then, I was struck and have had more trauma to my head.

“I’m hardly in a position to cause any harm,” I say. I want to add, obviously, but my voice is hoarse and croaky and my throat burns. Besides, no point in aggravating the situation any further.

“Where’d you learn our speech?” the man asks.

Has he not heard of language studies? “I’m a wordsmith, that’s all. I think there’s been a terrible mistake.”

This bit of news has the two of them both talking at once. They chatter over the top of each other, making it hard to follow their speech until one sentence rings out loud and clear. “She’s lying,” the woman says.

The man agrees.

“I assure you I’m not.”

“We said keep your hands up.”

Both guards lunge at me and I hit the deck. I cover my head with my arms, but the manacles and chains prevent me from curling into the fetal position as they kick me with heavy boots. My abdomen is fair game, and they concentrate their efforts there. When they stop, my body contorts with blinding pain and a thick metallic liquid drips out of the corner of my mouth and down my throat.

Barbarian vez hole scum. I spit blood. If I were savant, my phantom would rise, sea or no, and render you into so many pieces, you’d never find the path again. I shudder at the rage exploding inside me. For a moment, it chases away the pain and terror, so that’s good. In the brief space of freedom, I fantasize about what kind of phantom I raise, in this limb-tearing, path-tossing scenario. A warrior the likes of the mythical sea dragons of Atlas? It would chew them, and this ship, to bits, and then carry me safely to shore on her back.

But the image doesn’t last long. As it melts away like a snowflake in the sun, the pain and fear come running back.

I can’t breathe.

Through gasps, I try to analyze the situation as rationally as I can. Think, Ash. Think!

Someone has sprung a trap with me in it. Someone who ordered a ship whose crew spoke Palrion. What had been the plan? To shove me overboard and call it an accident? With manacled hands, I would have found it difficult to swim. But why? Mistaken identity? No Palrion would have done that. Whoever grabbed me…they would have seen the three of us enter the library and I am not a golden-brown-skinned, dark-eyed, eleven-year-old orange-robe. So it has to be me they wanted. I’d be scratching my head if I could. I mean, what secret do I keep that’s worth killing me for? Or am I just bait to lure Marcus and the whistle bones?

That makes much more sense.

And then, the Baiseen ship was attacked by these Sierraks, who do think I am Tyche. How they got our identities this mixed up, I can’t imagine, unless they were simply misinformed or tricked. By whom? I calm my mind with all these ideas, push past the pain, and open to my higher path.

I clear my throat. “If you’re quite finished beating me, I would appreciate a drink of water,” I say in their native tongue, my voice welling up from my soul.

The woman spits but the man speaks up. “She’s to be delivered alive, remember. Go. Fetch water.”

She shrugs and disappears, quickly returning with a bucket and ladle.

I want to cry when he leaves the whole thing in front of me, just within reach.

“Make it last,” the woman says. “That’s going to have to keep you the next few days. We aren’t big on serving prisoners in my realm, even one as sought after as you.”

I barely hear the words as I take my first sip of the cool, clear liquid. The water is fresh and sweet. Bless the bones for that. Then it sinks in, and I try not to think about how they treat the less important captives. “Long journey, is it?” I ask between sips, hoping for a response, or any clue as to where they are taking me, but the two guards leave without another word, the hatch shutting me into darkness behind them.

Are you there? I call for my inner voice. At least I can discuss this with the other side of my mind.

But I find I’m completely alone in the dark.