TANWEN
I had never really considered wind before. Who does? Unless there’s a mighty gale trying to pull the thatch from the roof or rip the grain from the field or topple all the fruit trees, there’s little reason for a Pembroni to think about the wind much.
But the Cethorelle had taught me that, sometimes, wind is everything. And at the moment, our sails hung limp as a muddled marsh-grazer.
Dylun stared up at them and grunted. “We don’t have time for this.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Warmil countered. “Unless there’s something in your studies that tells you how to control the weather.”
Dylun shot him a look. “Really, you have been much more tolerable since Aeron affixed herself to your side. Don’t ruin it.”
Aeron, right next to Warmil, looked a touch embarrassed.
A thought struck me. “I can control the weather.”
Dylun frowned at me. “Tanwen, you’re very talented, but even you have limits. I’m quite certain something—or Someone—much more powerful than you controls the weather.”
I rolled my eyes. “I know that. What I mean is that I can make strands of wind. I did before to fight the smoke strands. Couldn’t I do it here?”
“Will it be enough?” Warmil asked, glancing up at the sails. “A strand is one thing. Those are large sails to fill.”
“Maybe Mor and I could link. Or we could take turns—me, him, and Zel. I don’t suppose colormastery would be much help with this. All your strands are so solid.”
“Aye.” Warmil turned to Dylun. “What do you think?”
He shrugged. “No harm in trying, I suppose. Between that and the poles, perhaps it would be enough.”
“Aye,” I said. “Nothing to lose.”
And that might have been the dumbest thing I’d ever said. Perhaps it wasn’t harmful to power a ship by windy story strands, but it sure was exhausting. Linking wasn’t much help with this particular task. Links seemed to respond to emotion and instinct. Mor and I couldn’t control it the way we could our individual strands. We created a lovely cage of golden light, a rainbow that bounced around the deck of the ship, and when we became frustrated, a rabble of painted-wings made of fire.
But no wind.
So he, Zel, and I took turns filling the sails with strands of wind. I was so exhausted after my turn, I was barely able to enjoy the Minasimetese scenery—crags, peaks, and mountains everywhere, some mossy and green, others jagged and rocky, capped in crystalline snow. The people had not cleared land to live on, as we might in Tir, but instead had carved towns and villages into the rocky face of the island. Villages spread up, not out, and I was desperate to step off the ship to explore or to meet some of the black-haired children with wide, curious eyes who waved shyly as we passed.
But we didn’t stop along the way, and even if we had, I wouldn’t have had it in me to do much exploring. After three days of filling those sails, I was ready to collapse on the deck and never get up.
“Tannie”—Wylie handed me a steaming cup of tea—“you could sell your services and make a killing. Sailors would pay your weight in gold.”
“Aye, and I’d not live to see my eighteenth birthday.”
“Isn’t that in a few days?”
“Exactly.”
He grinned. “Kanja says we’re to begin the hike soon. They say it’s not far.”
The Minasimetese had been a strange and silent addition to the crew. It was clear they were along to make sure we didn’t do anything nefarious, like desecrate their Kurgarasi or something. They were an armed guard more than a friendly accompaniment. They ate and slept and spoke in small, tight knots with each other. Only Kanja shared words with us, and even then, only with Father.
I couldn’t blame them. They were breaking with their custom to even allow us inside their borders, and it’s not like we had made the best first impression. I wouldn’t take too kindly to someone banging on my cottage door, asking for favors, and bringing with them a cloud of danger.
I sipped the tea and hoped it would revive me. “I don’t feel quite ready for a hike.”
“Are you needed for this strand?” Wylie asked.
“Dylun says no. We need a colormaster and a songspinner this time. But I want to watch it, just the same.”
“Don’t blame you. Seems a once-in-a-lifetime chance.”
“Does that mean you’re coming?” It would be fun having him there.
“Aye, you bet your fish soup I am.”
“I’ll give you all the fish in the Menfor Sea for free. No betting needed.”
“So generous.”
I doffed my tricorn hat to him. “I’m going to go see if they need help getting Gryfelle up. She hasn’t been above deck in at least a week.”
Wylie nodded. “See you ashore.”
I went down the stairs, gripping the cup of tea, and crept along the hallway toward Gryfelle’s door.
I didn’t know why I was creeping, except that I always tried to stay quiet around Gryfelle and not disturb her if I could help it.
Just as the door came into view, I halted. Mor’s voice carried out to me—frustrated. And then Gryfelle’s, more lucid than I’d heard her in at least two weeks. She must be having a moment of clarity. Those moments were fewer and farther between than ever.
“I remember, Elle,” Mor was saying. “Even if you don’t.”
“Mor, I’m not the girl in those memories. That girl is lost. You don’t love me in the way you think you do. You can’t. I no longer exist. Not as I ought.”
“You do exist. Why do you say things like that? You’re sitting right here. You draw breath still, don’t you?”
“You know very well what I mean.”
“I’m tired of having this conversation with you every time you’re awake and lucid. It’s not what I want to discuss.”
“I’m tired of seeing that pained look on your face every time I’m awake.” Gryfelle’s voice was soft but filled with resolve.
“I look pained because you’re dying, Elle. You want me to be fine with that? Pretend like it doesn’t kill me to watch you suffer?”
“You make it worse for yourself. And you make it worse for Tanwen.”
“Stop.”
“No. I’m dying, aren’t I? You could afford me some consideration.”
A moment of silence passed, and I knew I should continue on to the kitchen. Return my cup and then come back like I hadn’t heard a word. I was developing a nasty habit of eavesdropping on private conversations, and the twist in my gut chided me.
Yet somehow, I couldn’t pull myself away.
“Elle, I’m never going to leave you.” Anger colored Mor’s words. “As long as you draw breath, I’m here.”
“I’m not asking you to leave, Mor. I’m asking you to free yourself of your obligation to me.”
“I won’t listen to this. You draw breath. You still matter.”
“And when I no longer draw breath, Captain Bo-Lidere? What then? You cling so to your self-imposed duty, you shall forever be shackled to it. You fail to see what you’re doing to yourself. How will you ever find happiness with another while living in the shadow of my death? How will you ever want to?”
Mor’s voice quieted. “If you could remember what you felt once, you would not be saying this.”
“Perhaps. But I cannot. I cannot feel anything about us anymore. And truly, I must wonder. Have you built this up in your mind to suit your need to erase what transpired with your sister? Perhaps what we shared was nothing more than an adolescent flirtation and you’ve built it into something much greater. Mor, I’m not your wife, and I never was. Free yourself.”
Another long stretch of silence, and when Mor spoke, his voice was choked with tears. “We’re going to save you, Gryfelle.”
“And if you do, then what? Mor, I don’t say this to hurt you. But I do not love you in that way. And I know you honestly don’t feel that way for me either. Whatever romantic feelings I had for you were the first thing to disappear. You know this because you saw it.”
Mor didn’t respond. And I thanked the stars I couldn’t see whatever was happening on his face. I couldn’t bear it.
Gryfelle’s voice suddenly sounded distant. “I’m so tired. Mother, I must rest. The ball is tonight. Please have the servants prepare my gown. Sir Gywas will be there.”
She had slipped away again. I closed my eyes against the whole awful mess. The unanswerable question pinged around in my head—why? Why was this happening to any of us?
“Tannie?”
My eyes flew open, and the pewter cup tumbled from my hands and clanged to the floor.
Utter mortification doused me from head to toe. I braced myself for Mor’s anger. I’d had no right to hear any of that, and surely he would tell me so.
But instead, he picked up my cup. He stepped closer and handed it to me. I took it back, but I couldn’t meet his gaze. Too ashamed. Face too hot.
Slowly, his hand found the side of my face. His fingers wrapped around the back of my neck and tightened. He held me there, then brushed some hair away from my cheek with his other hand.
I closed my eyes again and felt the moment, because I knew what would happen next. I knew after a long pause, he would release me and disappear, wrapped up in his angst and his heartache and his duty.
He did.
I stood alone in the hall, my knuckles whitening around my cup.