The survivors of Pelaeia didn’t want us.
I didn’t blame them, even back then. The Imperial Navy hadn’t treated its Coalition prisoners with half as much care as we’d been shown. We were exiled to the edge of the ragged encampment in Pelaeia’s shadow; Elfa settled there to watch over us, since no one else wanted to do so. But we were fed, and we had straw cots and heavy blankets to keep us warm in the cold northern air. Every morning, Holloway left to see to the sick and injured, while the rest of us stayed with Elfa. She did her best to find us useful work, which we performed with all of the desperation of guests who knew that they were unwelcome.
Evie took to following around the halcyon like an anxious duckling. Every spare moment that Evie wasn’t diligently working on chores or worrying over the rest of us, I saw him reading the Word of the Benefactor, scouring it with soul-deep urgency. Sometimes, I saw him look at the burning mountain that overshadowed us, and I knew the exact thoughts that ran through his mind: How can I be a good person again? Is it even possible? Surely, if anyone would know, it would be the Benefactor.
Little still hadn’t said a word since that fateful moment on the HMS Caliban, but Evie had coaxed him into rudimentary communication using some of the Imperial Handsign we’d learned by watching the officers. It was such a relief to see that Little hadn’t completely broken. There were so few people willing to talk to us, and some days, it felt as though all we had was each other.
Dougal MacLeod visited once or twice, in the evenings. His presence was always stilted and uncomfortable. I knew on some level that he didn’t want to be there—that he only came because he felt a responsibility to see through his decision to spare us. But I had developed a pathetic, inexplicable need for his approval, and so I often found myself talking at him with far more enthusiasm than he might have liked. I couldn’t stop myself, no matter how uncomfortable he looked; I had never known such a bone-deep desire for anyone’s good opinion. I desired it more than I had desired smiles from Physicker Holloway or accolades from Vice-Admiral Wakefield.
It was during one of these evenings after dinner, as I babbled about the way we’d made up hand signs for each of our names, that Dougal interrupted me.
“It’s a warm night, lad,” he said. “Why don’t we walk an’ talk, outside?”
My heart stuttered in my chest. I cut myself off mid-sentence, caught halfway between hope and fear. Surely, I thought, the big man was going to take me aside and tell me in private that I ought to leave him alone—that just because he’d spared my life didn’t make him my friend. But I nodded nervously and pulled my coat more tightly around me, carefully gauging the proper distance at which I ought to follow him.
It was not actually a warm night. There are very few warm nights on the slopes of Pelaeia. But the stars were bright and clear, in a way that reminded me of the view from above the clouds. The scene would have been beautiful, if not for the flickering aether-light of the moaning mountain before us.
Dougal walked for a long while in silence—long enough that I began to wonder if I was supposed to say something. But eventually—a good ways down one of the game trails—he settled himself onto a broad rock.
There was no other convenient rock next to him, but that didn’t matter. I sat down on the cold, hard ground next to him, glancing worriedly up at his face.
I wasn’t sure what to make of the expression there. I’d been expecting anger, or annoyance, or regret. But it was just a weary sort of sadness. Dougal MacLeod struck me in that moment as a man who’d gone past normal grief.
“Ah’d like to ask ye a question, lad,” Dougal said finally. He stared up at the sky, in the opposite direction of the mountain behind us. “But ah’d like ye tae give me a true answer, if ye can, an’ no just one ye think ah’d like to hear.”
I had started to tremble at some point, and not from the cold. I would have told Dougal MacLeod anything he wanted to hear… but the truth? I had a feeling that whatever truth he wanted, I’d be loath to give it to him.
Still. I couldn’t bring myself to disappoint him. I nodded slowly.
“Why’d ye join the Navy?” Dougal asked me. His eyes fixed upon those distant stars with a hint of confusion. “What made ye take the uniform an’ go aff fightin’ the Coalition?”
My mouth went dry. I knew the answer to this question—I didn’t have to think about it for even a moment. But it was a stupid reason, and I knew that too.
Dougal glanced down towards me. I saw the disappointment in his face, the longer that I stayed silent. It drove me to speak, though the words hurt coming out of me.
“The sky,” I said, in a raspy, faltering voice.
Dougal frowned at that, and I could tell he didn’t understand. I struggled to keep going—but he didn’t interrupt me, or try to rush me.
“I grew up in Morgause,” I said. “You don’t see the sky there, almost ever. There’s always smog. But one day, the wind picked up just before a storm, and I saw…” I swallowed. “I saw a blue patch of sky. And I just knew I had to get closer to it, no matter what it took.”
Dougal rocked back a bit at this. It clearly wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting.
“The Navy was recruiting,” I told him. The words spilled out of me in a rush, as though a dam had broken. “I tried to volunteer, but they told me they didn’t take goblins. I should’ve left it at that. But I sneaked aboard the first Navy ship I could find, just before they deployed.” I smiled ruefully. “They found me in storage. Probably would’ve thrown me over the side, but… Mr Holloway said I was his nephew. Goblins and hobgoblins aren’t related at all, except in the name—but they pretended to believe him, I guess. They made me a cabin boy and gave me a uniform.”
Dougal watched me as I spoke. I saw in his features the same fierce studiousness that Evie had displayed while reading the Word of the Benefactor—as though he was trying to discern the answer to a great mystery from the details of my story.
“Ye were proud ae that?” he asked me. He kept his tone carefully even, but I still flinched at the question.
“I… yessir,” I said, in a small voice. “I’m sorry.”
Dougal gave a pained, startled sort of laugh. “Ye’re sorry?” he asked me.
“I am,” I said desperately. “I am… so sorry. I thought I was doing a good thing, sir, I really did. I worked hard, and I did everything I was told. I knew I might die if we got into a fight, and I thought I was brave to be there anyway.”
Dougal shook his head. That pained laugh dimmed to a bewildered chuckle. “Did they tell ye why ye were fightin’?” he asked me.
I swallowed. “Because… the rebels were traitors,” I said softly. “It’s our duty to send soldiers to Arcadia, to defend everyone from the Unseelie. But the rebels refused to go.” I looked down. “Vice-Admiral Wakefield said the rebels were being selfish. He said the rest of us sent Tithes, but the rebels thought they were too special to send their own.”
Dougal nodded along with this, as though it was more along the lines of what he’d expected to hear. “Oh, aye,” he said. “We refused at some point.” He sighed heavily. “We sent our Tithes, lad. We did it wae pride. There’s no greater duty than tae join the Seelie in their battle, tae protect our world. But the empire kept… askin.’ More an’ more Tithes, they asked for, ‘til we’d little left to give. We’d wives wae no husbands an’ children wae no fathers. Crops died in th’ fields for lack a’ hands tae harvest ‘em. Come winter, people starved.” He crossed his arms over his chest with a grim sort of thoughtfulness. “The favoured provinces like the Emerald Spires never got asked twice. But Pelaeia got asked a third time. It was a death sentence for our families. So we said no… an’ when the Emerald Spires had the gall tae threaten us, we took from their shipments tae feed our people for the winter.”
I knitted my brow at this. My first instinct was that this was new information to me… but I’d promised Dougal to be truthful, and I realised on some level that I had known this already. Back in Morgause, I’d overheard conversations about the distant civil war. It had been a topic of mild interest, and occasionally a topic of sentiment. A few people had harrumphed and said how the Emerald Spires was full of hypocrites, and perhaps something less violent could be worked out if people would just talk.
But most people had been of the opinion that the Coalition had to follow the rules just like everyone else. Surely, the Coalition had broken the rules, and that was why we were fighting them. The rebels had attacked first, which made them wrong. And the Imperium wouldn’t have fought a war for bad reasons.
Even as young as I was, I thought I was wise and world-weary. I knew that people didn’t enjoy thinking very hard—and that they especially didn’t enjoy thinking very hard about other people in trouble. I’d begged for food and received kicks and insults instead. I’d advanced to pickpocketing, just to survive.
But somehow, I’d assumed that the empire as a whole was different from its citizens. For… what reason? Because it was old and vast? Because it had always been there, so it had to work? I wasn’t sure now. Why did I think that the people who ran the empire were any different from the people who walked past me with their eyes straight ahead every day of my life?
The rebels had starved. And then, they’d gone to pickpocket food from people who wouldn’t miss it.
“I knew that, I think,” I told Dougal. Misery threaded through my voice. “I didn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. I don’t know why. The Imperium never did anything good for me, but… I still wanted to believe they were right.”
Dougal rubbed at his face. “I cannae understand it for ye,” he admitted. “Part ae me doesn’t want tae understand, ye know?” He turned to look at me, and I saw the exhaustion in his shoulders. “Ah won’t lie, lad. It would’ve been easier tae let ye die an’ let Death Victorious sort ye out. An’ truth be told, ah understand why Cauldwell wanted tae shoot ye. He lost his father an’ his wife an’ his babe in Pelaeia. Ye were old enough tae serve an’ shoot at us, an’ there’s a view that says that means ye’re old enough tae die fer it.”
I stared at him. My body froze; my breath caught in my throat. There was no keener terror in the world than to hear the man that had saved my life question whether I ought to die after all.
But Dougal shook his head at me. “Ah made my decision, lad,” he said. “Ye dinnae know why ye believed the empire. An’ me… Ah dinnae know why ah hurt another man tae protect ye. But ah needed t’do it fer some reason, an’ ah’ll see it through now.”
My body fell to trembling. I wasn’t sure if it would stop until I was back in my cot, buried beneath the blankets.
“Did you lose family in Pelaeia?” I whispered.
Dougal nodded. There were no tears in his eyes—but I suspected that was because he had already cried too many. “Lost ma sister an’ ma niece,” he said. “Ah’ve taken up raisin’ ma nephew. He’s a wee lad—barely talks just yet. But he’s lost his arm. An’ he knows what happened, even if he cannae describe it yet.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again. I knew it was inadequate, but it was all that I had. My throat choked up with tears. “I’m sorry. I wish I could take it back. I wish I’d been better.”
Dougal smiled wanly at me. “There’s some that’d say it’s easy t’be sorry after ye’ve lost the war,” he told me. “But it means… somethin’ to me, lad. A wee bit.” Something about my tears stirred an answering lump in his throat. “Cauldwell needed vengeance tae feel whole, ah think. But ah needed… ah needed tae believe ah could make sense ae it. Ah want tae think we can learn a lesson that’ll stick, an’ that maybe next time, someone puts their foot down an’ says there won’t be another Pelaeia.”
I seized upon this immediately. “There won’t be,” I said. “Not in front of me. I’ll put my foot down if it kills me, Mr MacLeod, I’ll give you my Oath—”
“Yer Oathbroken, lad,” Dougal reminded me gently. “Ye cannae give Oaths anymore.”
I closed my mouth—abruptly reminded of my fresh new shame.
“Wouldn’t want yer Oath anyway,” Dougal told me. “Oaths dinnae mean anything tae me. Tyrants force Oaths on people—poor people, people who can’t say no. An Oath is just another kind a’ chain.” He met my eyes steadily. “Make me a promise from yer heart, instead—because ye mean it, an’ because ye truly believe it.”
I clenched my fingers into fists. I desperately wished that I could have sworn to Noble Gallant. I wanted Him to hold me accountable, so that I needn’t fear that I would lose my nerve to cowardice.
But Dougal wanted me to hold myself accountable. That was the apology he wanted. And I knew in that moment that it was the most generous thing that anyone would ever offer me. Because what I deserved, without a doubt, was the bullet that Cauldwell had meant for me.
Dougal had offered me the sort of mercy that no one should ever ask for.
“I promise,” I whispered. “You didn’t spare me for nothing, Mr MacLeod.”
This time, I did see tears in Dougal’s eyes. They welled up and spilled over, mixed with a painful, bittersweet relief.
The big northerner reached out to hug me. He held onto me because I was the only one there, I think, and because he needed emotional purchase. But I took a comfort from that hug that I knew was also undeserved.
Evie had gone searching for the meaning of mercy in the Word of the Benefactor. But it was a heretic named Dougal MacLeod that made me understand just how precious and how terrible mercy can be.
* * *
Twenty years later, New Pelaeia looked somewhat less like a camp of ragged refugees and somewhat more like a real city. The lower districts had been mostly rebuilt, and newer areas had been constructed on the lower slopes of the mountain. Some of the vessels that had landed near Pelaeia at the war’s conclusion had been turned into more permanent fixtures: pubs, inns, homes, and even one lonely, rarely used shrine to the Benefactor. These odd ship-buildings mixed freely with wooden homes built from great logs, dragged up from the forests below.
The contrast between old Pelaeia and New Pelaeia was even starker from our viewpoint in the air. The Upper District, already devastated, had withered further under decades of ice and snow, unchecked by mortal oversight. That awful, immortal aether-light still burned upon the mountain. I knew that unless someone had executed a miracle in my absence, at least two-thirds of the old city remained cursed by echoes. Aethermancers had offered before to study the phenomenon… but they were always rejected. Wraithwood had not left the people of Pelaeia with a terrible fondness for aethermancy.
Aethermancers weren’t illegal in Pelaeia, exactly. They were just… unwanted. Strahl always attracted sideways glances when we visited, given his aether-bleached appearance. Clearly, he hadn’t earned an “honest grey”, as some northerners liked to say. Hawkins, however, was an even more obvious taboo without her disguise. I worried at first that she might chafe at being told to stay on the ship for an extended period—but Hawkins surprised me with a hearty dose of common sense and agreed that this was for the best. This gave me a bit more faith in my decision to pursue her strange research; it has been my experience that great power and common sense rarely keep company.
We weighed anchor at the lower dock in the late afternoon. My weary crew began to settle us in, quietly cursing Barsby’s name. I cringed as I passed the grumblers. Picket’s jobs were normally reliable money—but because Barsby had kept us from the bank in New Havenshire, there wasn’t any money to share this time. This job wasn’t the first time we’d lost good people… but it was certainly the first time we’d done it for free.
Those with money still squirrelled away took their leave to relax; a few of those without decided to stretch their legs away from the ship. As for me—I had grim business in town.
I didn’t particularly want to address that business alone. But I needed Little to remain with the ship in my absence. Evie would have been a comforting choice, but he had stepped in as Holloway’s backup nurse while Mary rested.
Miss Lenore Brighton greatly desired a stiff drink, however. And since the person I was searching for was likely to be at a pub by now, we found ourselves in each other’s company.
The mountain air was chill, especially in the shadow of the great peak. My breath came in silver plumes as I headed into town with Lenore. We both dressed in knitted layers we’d acquired from the gunnery ladies over the years. Lenore could have knitted her own outerwear, of course, but it was an unspoken rule that no gunnery lady ought to knit her own things. In fact, Lenore’s lopsided scarf had come from young Mr Billings, who’d only just learned enough about knitting to hold his own.
“Is Mr Billings technically a gunnery lady?” I mused aloud.
Lenore arched an eyebrow at me. “He’s proven he can knit,” she said. “I suppose that means he won’t be leaving.”
I nodded my agreement. “Oh, yes,” I said. “Certainly, he’s staying. I was just wondering whether he minds being called a gunnery lady, or whether we ought to find a different name for you all, on his account.”
Lenore twitched her lips. “Trust I already asked him,” she told me. “Mr Billings doesn’t want the name changed. He worked hard to earn his place. He said if we changed the name, people might think we’d lowered our standards for him.”
I snorted.
The streets in the Lower District were coated with a light dusting of snow, but it had already been mostly trampled away. We caught a few curious looks between us—me with my green skin, red eyes, and pointed ears, and Lenore with her pretty face. This far north, established settlements were mostly populated by humans and stony-skinned hobgoblins, with the occasional nomadic cervitaur wandering in from outside; goblins were a rarity outside of the industrial heartlands of the former Imperium. I’d always noticed that people softened their suspicions of me when I was with a woman, though, since they assumed I was a servant. Lenore’s presence made me seem ‘cute’ and ‘subservient’, rather than ‘shifty’. I wasn’t fond of the implications either way—but at least this version of things led to less open trouble than the narrative that I was a natural-born troublemaker.
Lenore scowled and pulled her scarf up over her mouth. “Northern manners,” she muttered. “Someone ought to teach these people not to stare.”
“We’re in Pelaeia,” I said grudgingly. “They’ve got a right to worry about newcomers. The other northern cities are a bit friendlier.”
Lenore shifted her shoulders, as though to shake off the weight of those glances. “I don’t like friendly people either,” she retorted. “I like people who mind their own business.”
I smirked despite myself. “Northerners mind their own business,” I said. “They also mind everyone else’s business. They’re very talented minders, I’ve always thought.”
Lenore narrowed her eyes over her lopsided scarf. “We’re looking for one in particular, I take it?” she said.
“Aesir MacLeod,” I replied glumly. “Dougal’s nephew.”
Nephew didn’t quite convey the depth of their relationship, of course. Aesir had lost both his parents and his arm to the atrocities in Pelaeia at a very young age. Dougal had been forced to raise his nephew like a son—a circumstance which hadn’t suited either of them terribly well. Certainly, they’d loved each other… but Dougal had probably been a better uncle than he was a parent, judging from the way they’d clashed.
“And you think we’ll find Aesir MacLeod in a bar?” Lenore asked.
I squinted at the darkening sky. “Winter is just starting up,” I said. “The pubs here always make sure to keep the fires stoked high. Aesir does salvage work and ship repairs, mostly outdoors. He’ll be right next to the fire with a warm cider, if he can manage it.”
The Lady of Fools had certainly got Her fair share of laughs over the course of my early life. Somehow, I’d managed to forge a more cordial relationship with Aesir than he’d had with his own uncle. We weren’t close, mind you, but we’d found some common ground while growing up together.
I’d spent a lot of time feeling guilty about Aesir’s missing arm—and even more time trying not to show it. Not everyone in Pelaeia wanted my guilt, I had learned. The men of Pelaeia want their families back, Elfa had told me. My guilt was a poor substitute for that.
Rather than guilt, I suppose, I’d given Aesir a few warm ciders and a bit of company.
The source of those ciders soon came into view. MacGregor’s Anchor was a sturdy structure: equal parts stone, wood, and steel scrap. The titular anchor—a huge, battle-scarred chunk of steel beaded with melted snow—stood proudly out front.
Lenore craned her head to blink up at the anchor. “I don’t think I understand northern art, either,” she admitted to me. “What is that supposed to be?”
“That is MacGregor’s anchor,” I explained. “Captain MacGregor’s ship ran out of munitions during a battle, so he decided to weigh anchor on an Imperial ship instead. I’m not sure how true the story is, but northerners say he pulled that ship into another ship, and all three of them went down off the Lackland Coast.” I shook my head at the idea. “Some enterprising sort salvaged the anchor and brought it back to Pelaeia and decided to rename the pub—because, they say, if you’re going down in the drink, you may as well bring some folks with you.”
I couldn’t make out Lenore’s mouth beneath her scarf—but I thought I saw her eyes sharpen with vicious glee. “There’s a man after my own heart,” she said.
I looked away uncomfortably. Lenore hadn’t been a part of the Coalition… exactly. Her husband had left home to join the cause, though, and he’d died in the war. Everyone on the Rose had made their peace with the past, more or less… but every once in a while, we couldn’t help but remind each other of our once-cluttered loyalties.
Loud cheering broke out inside the pub, cutting through the awkward moment.
The door opened—and a man tumbled out onto the slick cobblestones.
He rolled on the ground a few times, gaining an impressive distance from the pub before he came to a thudding stop. Still, he looked more shocked than injured; he soon shook his head and wobbled to his feet.
I recognised him more by his stained mechanic’s jumpsuit than by his features. I find it embarrassingly difficult to tell humans apart sometimes, and most northerners here had the same broad shoulders and thick head of fiery red hair. It had been a few years since I’d seen Aesir MacLeod, and even in the half-light, I could tell that he’d aged out of his awkward phase into a well-muscled man in his prime. He’d cut his hair short—odd for a northerner, but not entirely unexpected. Aesir had often complained that his long hair had a tendency to catch in little places while he worked; it would be just like him to lose his patience one day and cut it all off. A new blaze of white on the right side of his head stood out sharply. I was sure it hadn’t been there, the last time I had seen him.
“Is that all ye got?” Aesir called out towards the pub’s open door, with only a hint of a drunken slur. “Ah’m still standin’!”
“So much for a quiet drink,” Lenore muttered.
Aesir had barely stormed back in when a boot drove into his gut, shoving him backwards. Said boot was attached to an old northerner, who stomped out after Aesir. The older man’s hair was mostly blond, with only the faintest embers of rusty red remaining; it reminded me of the last vestiges of paint on an otherwise barren hull. Despite his age, the northerner was still strong and hale. His powerful arms filled out a dark old jacket. A faded golden Coalition kerchief hung around his neck.
Part of the man’s face was horribly scarred, melted like pale candle wax. Bright blue veins shimmered beneath those waxy burn scars. I would have bet my hat that scar had been caused by aetheric flames. He was far drunker than Aesir, judging by his stagger. A dark fury clung to him as he moved—the sort you could only find at the bottom of a bottle.
“Tha’s ‘nough outta you, whelp!” the older man slurred. He took a powerful swing at Aesir with his fist—but the younger man quickly danced out of reach.
“Ye’ve had enough tae drink,” Aesir snapped back warningly. He pointed a warning finger at the raging drunkard. “Shut yer gob an’ go hame, Hamish. Ye’re makin’ an arse ae yersel. Ye’ll wake up embarrassed tomorrow, mark ma words.”
Hamish screwed up his face, dimly furious. “Nae respect!” he spat. He took another wild swing at Aesir—somewhat better aimed, this time. Aesir brought his arms up into a boxer’s defence, just in time to protect his head. “Ah was there, boy!” Hamish growled. “Ye dinnae get tae talk to me that way!”
Hamish’s swing had put him just within arm’s reach of Aesir, however. The younger northerner lashed out with his left hand to grip at a fistful of Hamish’s braided beard. Aesir yanked the beard sharply downwards, introducing Hamish’s face to his right fist.
The impact made a loud metallic clang. Hamish rocked back on his heels, stunned by the blow.
Light glinted off Aesir’s mechanical right hand as he pulled it back. I stared at the arm with fascination. It, too, was a new addition. Though it had clearly been pieced together from scrap, it had five distinct fingers—all the right length and size—and it worked very nearly as a hand should do.
Hamish shook off the punch. The old man straightened as best he could, raising his hands into an aggressive stance.
Aesir sighed heavily, and stuck him again.
Clang.
This time, I heard the man’s jaw crunch very slightly.
Hamish dropped to his knees with a groan. He tried one more time to throw himself at Aesir’s knees—but the younger man simply stepped aside this time. Hamish lost his balance and tumbled to the ground, instead.
“Ye’re so drunk, ye don’t even mind who ye’re talkin’ tae,” Aesir said. “Where’d ah lose my arm, Hamish?” His lip curled in weary disgust. “Bein’ at Peleaia disnae give ye the right tae be a bastard. When Finley says ye’ve had enough tae drink, ye’ve had enough tae drink. An’ if ye ever raise yer hand to her again, I’ll make sure ye’ve got to wheel yersel hame in a wheelbarrow.”
A few other northerners had crowded near the door of the tavern, watching the fight warily. Aesir raised his eyebrows at them, and two of the sturdier men filtered out, mumbling words of gratitude at him. They dragged Hamish upright, despite his protests, and hauled the groaning man away. The rest of the crowd disappeared uncomfortably back inside, leaving us alone with Aesir.
I cleared my throat.
“Er—Aesir MacLeod?” I said carefully.
Aesir blinked at us, as though just noticing our presence. A moment later, he seemed to recognise me. “Blair!” he said, with obvious surprise. “Well… been a while, hasn’t it?” He dusted off his hands, before hooking his thumbs through the belt loops on his jumpsuit. “Sorry ‘bout that. Hamish’s been… more an’ more ae a problem lately. Everyone’s tae much ae a coward tae tell aff a survivor, so he just goes on ‘til it’s tae much tae stomach.”
I looked at Aesir bleakly. “So they make you do it instead?” I observed.
Aesir flashed me a hopeless smile. “Perks ae survivin’ just keep addin’ up, the older ah get,” he said flatly. “Nae one tells me tae do it. They just… stand back ‘till ah have tae.”
A tired, furtive expression stole across his face at the statement. But he buried it quickly, forcing on a roguish grin that reminded me painfully of Dougal. “Who’s the lady?” he asked. The question was halfway addressed to Lenore, herself. It carried an overly interested tone that made me wince.
“The lady is not interested,” Lenore said shortly.
A drunken laugh bubbled out of Aesir at that. “Understood,” he said. “Shame. Ye look like fun.”
Lenore relaxed a bit at the easy acknowledgement. She glanced at me sideways. “I’m getting my drink, Captain,” she said. “You know where to find me.” She stepped past Aesir for the door of the pub, slipping quietly inside.
She’d clearly decided that this was supposed to be a private moment. Coward that I am, I briefly wished I’d asked her to stay.
Aesir watched her go with vague interest. As Lenore disappeared, he glanced back towards me. “Where’s the old scoundrel, then?” he asked. “Don’t tell me he’s back oan the ship.”
I thought I had been ready for that question. I wanted to be ready—to say exactly the right words for the situation. But my mouth opened, and… nothing came out. The words choked in my throat.
Aesir’s forced smile drained from him, all at once.
“I’m… I’m sorry, Aesir,” I finally croaked.
Aesir shook his head violently. For the first time, the alcohol in his blood showed in a nasty way upon his features. “Don’t apologise,” he spat. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? The old man decided tae kick off, ‘stead a face me.”
The words were brutal—but the sentiment behind them was nothing I hadn’t heard before. Bewildered grief hovered beneath the surface, overwhelmed for the moment by shock and drunkenness.
“I…” I swallowed heavily. I wasn’t sure how to respond to that ugly mixture of emotions. I found myself forced to fall back upon the things I’d prepared to say in advance. “I brought back… him and his ship. So the clan can have the salvage for a proper wake.”
“Ah don’t care.” Aesir fumbled the words, even as he spoke them. “Don’t care. They’ll do what they want. Some old, stupid tradition. Maybe they’ll even have a halcyon talk nice about him.” He laughed hollowly at that. “Nevermind how much he hated the Benefactor, aye?”
Every sentence only made me wince harder. I had already asked Evie if he would speak for Dougal. It hadn’t occurred to me, somehow, that Dougal might have found the idea abhorrent.
“I just thought… he’d have wanted to come home,” I said miserably.
Aesir staggered back against the pub’s wall. The weight of the news seemed to have caught up with him, to some extent—because he slid down into a seated heap at the base of the building.
“He left as soon as he could,” Aesir said dimly. “Left me. Why in rot an’ ruin would he want tae come back, when he worked so hard tae escape?”
Silence fell between us.
I was perhaps the worst person in the world to deal with Aesir’s complex feelings about Dougal. Holloway was right in that I’d never really been able to give the man orders—but it was worse than that. Deep down, I’d never been able to think badly about Dougal, even when he might have deserved it. Some part of me shied away violently from the idea, every time I tried.
I didn’t have the right to disagree with Dougal MacLeod. I certainly didn’t have the right to tell him so, even if I had disagreed with him.
“I’ll… try to talk the chief down from having a halcyon,” I said thickly. I mentally apologised to Evie, hoping he would understand. “I have to ask her about something else anyway.”
Aesir raised his head to look at me. An odd light had kindled in his eyes, as though he’d had a personal revelation. I wasn’t sure I liked that look.
“Ye’re leavin’ again soon,” he said. “Back oan yer ship.”
I shifted warily on my feet. “I am,” I said carefully. “But not yet. I have… it’s complicated.”
Aesir squinted at me from his place on the snowy ground. “Uncomplicate it fer me,” he said.
I worked my mouth helplessly for a few seconds. After the display I’d just seen, the very last thing I wanted to do was bring up the past. But Aesir’s expression was suddenly fiercely focussed, and I knew I wasn’t going to get away without telling him at least some of the truth.
“I have an aethermancer on my ship,” I said finally. “She says she has the technology necessary to put the echoes to rest. I… halfway believe her. But I need to ask for permission if we’re going into old Pelaeia.”
Aesir chewed this over with far more calm than I had expected.
“Ye’re goin’ tae old Pelaeia,” he said. “An’ then ye’re leavin’.”
“Yes…?” I said. Aesir seemed far more focussed on the latter fact than he was on the former. I wasn’t at all sure what to make of that. “I mean, we’re staying for the wake, obviously—”
Aesir clambered to his feet, unsteady. “Chief’s inside,” he said. “Ye could talk tae her now, if ye wanted.”
“I don’t… I don’t know if now is the right time,” I stuttered. “We’ve only just got here, and—”
“—an’ sooner is always better,” Aesir finished firmly. He stalked over to grab me by the arm, dragging me towards the pub. “Everythin’ wae Old Pelaeia’s a big decision. An’ it takes time to put a wake together. May as well let her know the now.”
I heard the ulterior motive underlying Aesir’s voice—but I wasn’t clear-headed enough to figure out just what it was. Either way, I couldn’t gin up the courage to protest as he dragged me into the pub behind him.
* * *
The inside of MacGregor’s Anchor was a chimaera of heavy logs, sturdy stone, and bits of scrap from old ships. Everything here was a building block; the northern clans respected old bones and twisted steel. They preferred to build on top of history, so that its skeleton showed through at the edges.
The tables and chairs inside were just as varied as the structure’s building materials—though they all had a well-worn, comforting look to them. The hearth inside crackled with an inviting fire, spreading a bit of warmth through the ramshackle public house. Beneath the heavy smell of wood smoke, I caught the sharp scent of MacGregor’s infamous cider, and my stomach gurgled with sudden longing.
Lenore had already seated herself at a table in the corner, as far from company as humanly possible. Aesir wove his way towards a different table, however, pushing through the busy pub with drunken determination.
I recognised the woman at that table, though we hadn’t spoken for quite some time. Chief Crichton was nearly as old as Dougal had been—but time had been far kinder to him than it had been to her. Her hair, once dark red, was now a stark blonde. Her legs were missing below the knees; a pair of stiff-looking mechanical implements served in their place. A few of the fingers on her left hand were similarly missing. Crichton’s hawkish eyes, once bright green, had dulled to a pale, lustreless shade—but those eyes had lost none of their sharpness. She turned her gaze upon us in a peremptory glower, even as Aesir dragged me behind him towards her table.
“MacLeod,” she said, in a stern, cracking voice. “Ah’m relaxin’ the now. Whatever business ye’ve got, it can wait ‘til the ‘morra.”
“Dougal’s dead,” Aesir told her. Nearby conversations died, and all hope of a quiet, private conversation evaporated abruptly. Shocked grumbles rippled through the nearest tables, as I squirmed under the redoubled attention.
The glare on Crichton’s face melted away into a stony, businesslike expression. I remembered that expression from the few official clan meetings to which I’d been allowed. It was the look of a woman who knew all too well how to handle tragedies in her community. She was, I think, an unparalleled expert on the matter of untimely deaths.
“Where’s his body?” Crichton asked.
Aesir glanced back at me. “Blair brought ‘im home,” he said. Somehow, he managed to keep the bitterness from his voice, this time.
Chief Crichton turned those sharp eyes upon me, and her gaze hardened subtly. The chief and I did not have fond memories of one another.
“Blair,” she said, in curt acknowledgement.
“Ma’am,” I greeted her back, as respectfully as I could manage. The word still came out of me in a small voice. There’s a special discomfort involved in being hated for good reason. It’s a helpless, incontrovertible state of being—knowing that you did something to deserve that hatred, and that nothing you do will ever be enough to wipe it away. I had spent several years in my youth helping to build New Pelaeia… but that still felt like a paltry penance, all things considered.
“He still in one piece?” Crichton asked me. “Good fer a wake?”
The question hit me like a club. I’d forgotten how straightforward Chief Crichton could be. I had to work to recover my voice. “He’s… yes,” I managed. “It should be fine. I brought his ship back, too.”
Crichton nodded, silently checking an item off her list of funerary preparations. “Ah’ll send some ae the boys tae collect him tomorrow,” she said. “We’ll want tae sort the wake sooner, rather’n later.”
I hesitated, knowing that what I had to say wouldn’t go over very well—but I’d promised Aesir that I would try. “I know Dougal would prefer no priests—” I started.
“Not your decision, bluejacket,” Chief Crichton said coldly. “These are clan matters. None ae your concern.”
Aesir snorted. I glanced at him in surprise, and saw that he was shaking his head. “No worth the fight, Blair,” he told me. “Dougal should’ve warned ye no tae bring him hame.” A scathing note entered his voice.
“Ah’ll overlook that tone fer now, MacLeod, as yer currently grievin’,” Chief Crichton said. “Ye’ll keep a civil tongue in yer head fer the rest a’ this conversation, though, or ye’ll leave an’ come back when ye’re under control.”
Aesir clenched his jaw. I felt him working to smother the helpless, injured fury inside himself. But he’d had years of practice being angry at Dougal; he forced an unnatural calm into his voice. “Ye’ll do what ye’ll do,” he said. “But that’s not everything.” He glanced towards me, weighing something in his mind. “Blair’s got an aethermancer on board. Says they can send on the echoes in Old Pelaeia.”
In reply to this, a dreadful silence stretched across the pub. A pin drop might have sounded like a grenade.
Chief Crichton stiffened in her chair. “They won’t be tryin’ any such thing,” she said. She speared me with a vicious look. “Keep yer aethermancer oan that ship, Blair. Mark my words, Ah won’t be responsible fer what happens to ‘em if they step aff it.”
Dark murmurs now trickled through the tables around us, breaking the stillness. Threatening glares dug beneath my skin, and I had to resist the urge to take a step back.
“Why?” Aesir measured the word out with exaggerated calm, as though to demonstrate his civility. “Why don’t we let someone try, Chief? We don’t tinker with foci. We barely touch aether, other’n fer ships. Long as we’re afraid ae aether, we’re sure not goin’ tae put anyone to rest oursels.” He rested his mechanical arm upon the table, and I realised the obvious—it was powered with aether. “Can’t make things worse fer those souls, Chief. Every night, they scream. Some ae us hear family screamin’. An’ maybe we’re ready fer it tae stop.”
Crichton’s stiff posture caved against that unnervingly calm statement. She looked away from Aesir, suddenly very tired. Every person in the pub was haunted by the ghost of that mountain—but Aesir had lost both his arm and his family in Pelaeia. He had watched, up close, the awful moment of its birth.
“...ye trust that aethermancer?” Crichton asked quietly.
I opened my mouth to tell the truth—no, not at all—but Aesir beat me to the punch. “Sure do, Chief,” he said.
I didn’t dare contradict him. I certainly didn’t now dare to mention that this particular aethermancer carried a silver sword. I wasn’t sure just what Aesir was playing at… but he knew I didn’t have the spine to call him out for it. Not with our history. Not with Dougal freshly gone.
“I’ll be watching the aethermancer the whole time,” I said instead. “If she tries anything beyond what she’s claimed, she won’t be leaving those slopes alive.”
“She won’t for certain,” Chief Crichton said softly. “As ye won’t be the only one goin’.” She turned her hard eyes upon Aesir. “Ye want an aethermancer in Old Pelaeia, lad? I’ll allow it. But you’re goin’ wae ‘em.”
In the seconds which followed this statement, nothing dared to make a sound. Even the wind, it seemed, was silent.
I stared at Aesir, unable to hide my horror. I knew the chief had just thrown down a gauntlet she didn’t expect him to take up.
If I’d expected anyone present to protest on his behalf, or volunteer to take his place, then I was swiftly disappointed. The people in the pub averted their eyes or sipped at their drinks in discomfort.
But Aesir gave the chief a stilted, painful nod.
“So ah will, then,” he said. The fury he’d been holding onto cracked into the words, and he shot a hard look at me. “We’ll go tomorrow, Blair,” he said. “Ye’d best be ready.”