68

Marcus

“Gods of the Drop, what’s that smell?” I cover my nose and mouth as I speak to Captain Anders. It’s another brilliant sunrise on the deck marred only by the stink wafting off the water.

“Reefs are dying north of the Fancrest, don’t you know?” He wears a bandanna over his face, only his eyes, thick brows, and forehead showing. “The glaciers are melting.”

“This time of year?”

“Melting faster than is natural. Each day be like a thousand years.”

He goes into so much detail I can barely follow—sea temperatures, rising tides, algae blooms, silt choking the corals, blocking sunlight. “Can’t something be done?” I gag on the smell.

“Take deep breaths with your mouth open. Fastest way to acclimate.”

Not what I meant, but I follow his advice. It works, a little. “But can’t something be done to save the reefs?”

“If there is a cure, I’ve not heard of it. Ready the others. We’ll reach the harbor soon.” He waves straight ahead, toward the river mouth.

The Dugong tacks to the harbor on the morning tide. I cup my hands to my mouth and blow warmth into them. Another sunrise and still no sign of Ash. The captain calls for the tack again and the boom swings, rushing us forward into the wide-mouthed river. The flowing water is hemmed by white chalk cliffs that race up to the clouds. On the right, the formation tapers, like a giant petrol, wings tucked to dive.

“I guess that’s why they call it Whitewing.” I’ve never been to the small city and had thought the maps were an exaggeration. Not so at all.

From the deck, the Sanctuary is barely visible at the top of the right hand cliffs. It’s strategic, reached by sailing farther upstream. Again an advantage to the openness of Baiseen. The first mate signals the crew to drop more sail, and soon we’re running on only the jib, gliding along the Salmon River. I shiver as we run under the shadow of the cliffs on either side, the water stinking and brackish. Rafts of dark, unnamed lumps bob away from the hull as we glide through them.

Eyes.

“What?” I ask my phantom.

Eyes, watching us, De’ral says again. To the south.

I scan the mile-high cliffs on the left side of the harbor as hairs rise at the back of my neck. Before I can question further, Samsen comes up on deck and stands beside me, hand over his mouth. “What died?”

“The reefs. Where are the others?” I ask.

“Not far behind me,” Samsen says, keeping his eyes on the horizon. The river narrows, a forest closing in on both sides, but there’s still a view of the highest cliff, hundreds of feet above. “Look there,” Samsen whispers, keeping his mouth covered. He points up, and to the south.

I follow his line of sight. “What is it?” Then I ask De’ral, “Can you tell?”

Not I. It’s a moment before he says more. But Salila can.

I let out a nervous laugh as heat flushes my face. Great, I’m blushing like a blue-robe at the sound of her name. That will impress.

De’ral cuts into my thoughts, describing what is a dark smudge to my eyes. It’s the red-robe. He’s stroking his horse’s neck. Talking to it.

“You can see him?” I ask.

No. Exasperation drips off his voice. I can’t see him, but the Mar women can. It’s the same dark horse. She says it’s Gollnar bloodstock, his favorite—

“I don’t care about the horse.”

You should, De’ral says. The red-robe does.

“Wait. Mar women? As in more than one?”

Salila. He savors her name. And the other. Not a friend. The two of them argue continuously.

What would they be arguing about? I tilt my head, listening with my inner ears but catch nothing.

Salila says to be careful.

“Salila!” I nearly shout at her. “You can speak directly to me, you know, through De’ral.” She’s done it often enough before. Why not now? “Please, I don’t even know how to understand this message within a message.”

She’s protecting you. De’ral says it like no other explanation is needed.

“I don’t need protection! Just tell me how far Atikis is from Whitewing Sanctuary?” I speak aloud.

“If it’s Atikis, we all need protection, Marcus.” Samsen stares into the distance. “Your eyes are better than mine. I thought it was a bear cave, or maybe a moose.”

“How far?” I repeat my question to De’ral.

A few hours’ ride down the cliff and then up the other side.

“If it’s the red-robe, he’s nearer than I like.” Samsen points at the winding trail, coming to the same conclusion. “It’s not the same pinnacle as Whitewing’s, though the distance is deceptive, a vertical climb.” Samsen squints at me. “When did you become an eagle eye?”

“Best not ask, but good news, we’re ahead of him.”

I try again to converse with Salila directly, asking for news of Ash, but she doesn’t respond. Maybe it’s the foul water. No living thing would want to stay in it for long.

We sail farther up the river and the distant peak is swept from view. “Stay observant, Samsen. I don’t know what our reception here will be, so close to Sierrak.” I turn my gaze to the river’s shore.

Wooden boardwalks line both sides of the waterway, built above the high water line. Submerged beneath them, the original pier ripples under the lapping waves. “Sea level that high?”

Samsen shakes his head. “Seems so.”

Bloated fish and streams of slimy kelp bump against the pile caps, but the newer boardwalk remains dry.

“Where is everyone?” Samsen asks.

He’s right. The place is practically deserted. Understandable, with the stench. With all the algae blooms and dead sea life, the toxins in the air would not be good to breathe. A donkey cart rolls along the other side, and up ahead, a few fishermen play dice in a huddle. Their boats are empty in their moors. Behind the boardwalks are dead gardens. Higher still, buildings stack so close to each other there’s barely a gap. As we progress, more people appear until we put into the city of Whitewing proper. There are market stalls and one ship being off loaded, but it’s still a desolate place.

“We’ll go straight to the Sanctuary?” Samsen asked.

“I should hope so, with our documents, and the letter from Havest. You have it?”

Samsen hands it over but Larseen appears from below and intercepts. “That’s my job, Marcus.” He coughs. “Is there a dead whale beached below?”

“More than one, I think.” My chest tightens at the reminder of the world on the brink, and Ash’s absence. Up until now, it was her job to mind the documents. I’ve nearly surrendered to the fact that she is on her way back to Baiseen, but, selfish as it is, I hope it’s not true. Maybe Ash can send a message to Lars via their medallions.

Maybe she has.

The thought does nothing for my mood, or my trust in Lars. If he knows more and isn’t saying…

I can’t understand it. If Brogal wanted her back, wanted her replaced, why didn’t he just say so? Her disappearing without a word doesn’t make sense.

Tyche and Piper join us, hands over their mouths. “What reek is in the air?” our healer asks.

I look up to the rose glow of the second sun and she follows my gaze. “Reefs are dying.” I repeat Captain Anders. “Glaciers melting too fast, and the sea’s warming. Seems it only takes a few degrees to cause grievous harm.”

Tyche wrinkles her nose. “The stink is grievous, to be sure.”

It takes longer than expected for the ship to be moored. No idea why. By the time we’re on the docks, the sun shines high over the eastern cliffs, second sun out of sight. I sweep the deck, doing a double take at the wheelhouse. The cabin boy is staring. When we lock eyes, he slinks away.

“What’s that about?” Piper asks before sipping from her waterskin.

“The lad?” Larseen cuts in. “Fascinated by savants, it seems.”

He makes excuses for the spy? We can crush them both.

“But we won’t,” I say in the firmest voice I can muster. But part of me agrees.

“They know we’re here.” Piper nudges me in the side.

A troop of armed guards arrive at the top of the boardwalk, each in a smart black uniform, including a bandanna around the nose and mouth. They march down the zigzag steps to greet us.

“Havest must have sent word by phantom.” I straighten my back as the guards approach.

“Or crow,” Larseen says. “They use them to send messages from Pandom City.”

“Let’s hope it has warmed Whitewing to us,” Samsen whispers. He steps forward with Larseen who introduces me as the Bone Gatherer here to meet with High Savant Warcott.

The guard salutes. “The Sanctuary is expecting you.” He turns about and leads the way.

“That’s our greeting?” Tyche asks. Her hand stays over her nose and mouth.

“At least we’re going straight there this time.” Piper takes Tyche’s hand and shoots me a look.

I know what she means. Stay on guard, eyes open. With that thought in my head, I follow the troop up to the boardwalk. There the entire contingent salutes me and flanks us all like honored guests.

Or prisoners, De’ral adds.

Is my phantom being sarcastic? I’m not sure but I also can’t argue the point. As we’re marched to the Sanctuary, onlookers might have trouble telling if we are friends or foes. When we reach the highest level, I look back over the harbor. No sign of Kaylin and Ash.

We should be finding her, not visiting sanctuaries. He’s angry.

I understand it, I want to bare my teeth, too. But I don’t. “Luckily, we’re doing both. Now pay attention. I want this to go smoothly and without a hitch.”

I listen for a response but hear only the sound of marching feet and my pulse pounding in my throat.