CHAPTER FOURTEEN

HANG ON.” WITH THAT, CAPTAIN WHITNEY returned his full attention to steering the Nomad through the waves.

Wind howled around them, and rigging slapped against the masts as the wood creaked and groaned with the pressure of the full sails. Rain slicked Connor’s hair against his scalp, plastering his clothing to his body. Zaryae’s dress was soaked, and she wrapped her arms around herself against the wind. Down on the main deck, even Borya and Desya had abandoned their posts high in the rigging, and they joined the deckhands, who labored under the commands Trad screamed above the wind, adjusting the sails so that the wind did not split them or cause the ship to founder.

“If you see anything with that Sight of yours, I’d sure appreciate hearing about it,” Whitney growled to Zaryae. “Get below, both of you, before you catch your death.”

Zaryae shook her head. “I’d be grateful for a canvas coat, but I’d just as soon stay up here, if it’s all the same to you. I have a feeling you’re going to need me.”

Whitney’s gaze slid to Zaryae with a mixture of skepticism and wariness. “You think so, huh?”

“I’d like to stay, too,” Connor replied. “Although I’d appreciate something to keep the rain off me as well. Just in case there’s anything I can do to help.” Magic. Connor knew from the look in Whitney’s eyes that the captain took his meaning right away.

“You might find some capes and hoods in the locker over there,” he said, sparing a nod of his head to indicate a wooden box nearby. “If there are any to be had, that’s where they’ll be.”

Connor worked his way carefully across the tilting, slippery deck, holding on tightly to some part of the ship the entire way. After everything I’ve lived through, I’ve got no desire to be washed overboard.

He returned with three worn capes and hoods, and steadied the wheel for Whitney while the captain put one on. Zaryae pulled hers over her head gratefully. Connor slipped into the cape and hood, though he was wet enough that rainwater ran down his back and legs beneath the coat.

“If you’re going to stay with me, you’d best lash yourselves to the rail with that rope,” Whitney directed. “Mind to use a slipknot, in case you want to move quickly.”

The only reason for that would be if the ship was going down, Connor thought, in which case, it was a matter of drowning with the ship or later, afloat on the debris. I’ve done that once. No desire to do it again. Do I have to nearly die every time I get on a boat?

The Nomad plowed through the waves, though the sea had grown rough enough that the lower deck was awash with water. Waves slid beneath the rail, sluicing across the boards. Trad had sent all but the most essential crew belowdecks, and made sure that loose items and hatches were secured. Now, Connor knew, it was a matter of hunkering down to get through the storm as best they could.

Connor had managed to block out much of his first trip to Edgeland. Or perhaps, he thought, the shock of so much lost all at once had been too much for his mind to grasp. Now that he tried to remember, very little of those forty days at sea came to mind, save for the constant seasickness, the lead-cold fear, and the final, terrifying night when the Prowess went to the depths.

He did not recall the ghosts.

As Connor clung to the railing, soaked beneath his cape, chilled to the bone, faces began to form in the fog. He could not make out distinct features, but there was no mistaking the shapes and shadows that moved in the mist, the empty, person-shaped holes in the rain. Fish-belly-pale faces stared back at him with sightless eyes from the puddles on the deck. Cold fingers lightly touched his shoulders or trailed down his arms. In the howl of the wind, Connor heard the moaning of distant voices.

Those voices were growing closer.

At first, the murmuring was indistinct. Human, but unintelligible, drowned out by the wind and the rain. Yet as the Nomad pushed on through the tempest, and the storm raged around them, both the voices and the images became much clearer.

Find us, the voices begged. It’s so dark and cold here.

Bring us home, more spirits pleaded. The tides leave us no rest.

Give us your warmth. New voices, angry voices demanded their due.

Connor took a deep breath to calm himself, hardening his resolve to keep the spirits at bay. With his strengthened gift from being one of the Lords of the Blood, he had discovered that his power to see and hear ghosts was stronger than before, and those spirits could no longer easily force themselves upon him. That did not mean he could keep himself from hearing their incessant pleas or seeing their forms everywhere he turned. Maybe once his lessons with Zaryae were complete, he could shut the spirits out, but not yet.

So many of us. Hundreds. Thousands. Down in the dark. Don’t you want to come to us? You can hear us. We’ll tell you our tales.

Let us live again in you. Skin… blood… breath… warm. So warm. Our lives were cut short. Let us have yours…

Go away! Connor commanded silently. I don’t owe you anything. Your fate is your own. I can’t save you, and my life belongs to me.

You’ve got to sleep. We’ll come to you in your dreams. Show you what it’s like, down in the deep places where the fishes pick at your bones and the worms eat your eyes.

Leave me alone! I’ve done nothing to you, and I’ll do nothing for you.

We could make a deal. We might even save your lives.

Connor hesitated. On one hand, he distrusted the ghosts. He could feel their hunger. Some of the spirits hung back, watching but saying nothing. From them, Connor felt resignation, regret, and hopelessness. A few challenged him, forcing their consciousness to the fore, vying for his attention and demanding what they wanted. Most were barely memories of their former selves, trapped between the mortal realm and the Sea of Souls, fading into shadows.

What kind of deal? Connor was certain any arrangement would be a fool’s bargain. Then again, they were in the trackless sea, in a storm that even to his eyes was growing worse by the moment, with damaged sails, and still weeks to go before they reached their destination.

These waters are treacherous. That’s why we’re here, down in the dark. Our ships foundered. But we can guide you through.

What can you tell me that our captain doesn’t know? Connor challenged.

There are mountains under the ocean, the voices replied. They rise up from the deep, far below, where no light ever shines. But we see them, now. They cause the wicked currents that took our ships from us. They tore the keels from our ships and sent us to the bottom. The maps don’t know them all. But we do. The dead know.

And what would you ask in exchange? Connor said. My life? My body? My soul?

A breath, a bite of food, a drink of whiskey, warm blood… The voices drowned each other out as they vied for his attention.

Yet there is one of me, and thousands of you.

Without our help, you’ll be joining us very soon. Very, very soon.

Angry and frightened, Connor pushed the ghosts away with what little mental shielding he could muster, and the howl of voices became a dull, distant roar. He came back to himself to find Zaryae watching him with concern.

“Connor?”

“I’m all right.”

Zaryae’s expression made it clear that she read the lie for what it was. “You’ve been staring into space with your lips moving for a quarter candlemark or more. What’s going on?”

He met her gaze with an edge of desperation. “The ghosts of the ocean dead are fighting about who gets my warm body.”

Zaryae caught her breath. “Sweet Esthrane. Can they… take it from you?”

Connor shook his head. “No—or at least, not easily. Not anymore. I’ve gotten stronger since the ritual at Mirdalur. And the Wraith Lord won’t let that happen. What you’ve taught me helps, but we haven’t gotten far yet. So I don’t think the ghosts can take my body by force, but they could make it… uncomfortable.”

“What will you do?” Zaryae asked.

For the moment, Connor left her question unanswered, and moved to speak to Captain Whitney. “Is there something special about the waters where we are?” he asked.

Whitney gave him a measured look, as if he had come to expect the unusual from Connor. “You mean besides most captains calling this stretch the ‘Graveyard of Ships?’” he asked.

“Why do they call it that?”

Whitney frowned. “Bad current through here. In places, there are rocks high enough to scrape a ship’s keel if you’re lucky, and rip it out if you’re not. Unlucky waters, that’s for sure.” He paused. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for that monster and the storm. I bet that the current would be swift enough to keep that monster away from us, but it means we have to run the channel, around the rocks. Go to open water, and that thing might be waiting for us. It’s a gamble either way.”

“How good are your maps?” Connor asked. “Of the rocks below?”

Whitney frowned. “Why?”

Connor had no energy left for diplomacy. “Captain Whitney, I’m a spirit medium. I speak to ghosts, and they talk to me. And right now, there are several thousand restless spirits surrounding the Nomad waiting for their chance to welcome us to the ocean floor.”

Whitney paled. “You’re lying.”

“I can let them talk to you, through me,” Connor snapped, his patience grown thin with cold and fear. “But I don’t think you’ll like the conversation.”

Whitney eyed him with a mixture of suspicion. Yet after what he had seen with Connor channeling the Wraith Lord’s magic, Whitney could not wholly disbelieve. “Why tell me?”

“Because they’ve offered us a deal,” Connor said. “They promise us safe passage through this place, past what they call an ‘underwater mountain,’ out of the current. They say your maps don’t show everything, and that’s how they ended up dead.”

Grudging belief warred with fear in Whitney’s eyes. “You’re right about the maps,” he said. “They’re good enough, but not perfect. And the poor blighters who find out where they’re wrong don’t live to tell the tale.”

“How sure are you that you can get us through the Graveyard safely?” Connor asked. “The truth. The spirits ask a dear price.”

“I’ve read the maps. Been through here once, and made it out. But that was in clear sailing,” Whitney admitted. “Now, I can’t get my bearings from the stars. In the big wide ocean, that doesn’t usually matter. But here, being a little bit out of position can make a deadly difference.”

“Would you listen, if one of the spirits guided me through?”

Whitney looked at him for a long moment before he replied. “How do you know these ghosts don’t want us all dead? Maybe they’re lying to you. Maybe they’ll steer us right into the mountain, and we won’t know better until we’re just as dead as they are.”

“Maybe,” Connor admitted. “But I think I can assure that doesn’t happen.”

Whitney looked away, staring into the driving rain for long enough that Connor thought the captain was not going to answer him. “If you tell the crew I asked for your help, I’ll keelhaul you, Penhallow be damned,” Whitney threatened.

Given the interest the Wraith Lord had taken in him, Connor strongly doubted that Whitney would be able to make good on his threat. Still, he understood the captain’s need to save face. “Zaryae and I will tell no one. You have our word on it.”

“Then yes, I could use a guide,” Whitney admitted grimly. “That is, if you want to make it to Edgeland as more than debris.”

Connor nodded. “I’ll make arrangements.”

“Be quick about it. We’re heading into the worst part,” Whitney warned.

Zaryae laid a hand on Connor’s forearm as he turned away from Whitney. “Bevin, talk to me. What are you planning to do?”

Connor met Zaryae’s gaze. “What does your gift tell you?”

Zaryae closed her eyes and stood completely still for a few moments. “The danger comes from below,” she said quietly, and shook her head sadly. “That could mean so many things. The tanoba. The current. The ghosts. The mountains below the water. Maybe something else entirely.”

“If I can get information Captain Whitney doesn’t have, information that could get us through the drowned mountains, isn’t that worth the price? My… discomfort… for all our lives?”

Zaryae’s gaze fixed him unwaveringly. “Discomfort? Or peril?” She paused. “What does the Wraith Lord think about this?” she asked, and looked vindicated when Connor winced. “You haven’t asked him, have you?”

“There’s not time.”

“But there’s time enough to nurse you back from the brink of death?” she demanded. “Do you have any idea what that’s like for the rest of us?” For the first time, it occurred to Connor that Zaryae was close to his same age and, like him, struggling with a strong gift she could neither fully control nor understand. Seeing her standing there in a borrowed cape, soaked and shivering, he realized that he had never actually noticed how pretty she was, or that beneath her steel she was just as scared as he was.

“I’ll be all right,” he assured her, though he felt far from certain.

Zaryae’s grip dug into his arm. “Swear to me, Bevin. Swear you aren’t going to sacrifice yourself.”

That’s an easy answer, the Wraith Lord’s voice sounded on Connor’s mind. I won’t allow it.

“Apparently not, according to the Wraith Lord.” Much as he appreciated his undead patron’s support and protection, it was exceedingly clear in some moments that he was not his own master.

Few men are, the Wraith Lord said, commenting on the thought. Most who believe themselves to be are deceived.

Can you guide us? Connor asked. I would rather give myself over to you than to the cold dead from the bottom of the deep.

Alas, no, the Wraith Lord said. I could, perhaps, will myself to the floor of the ocean. But I would be a mere pilgrim, passing through a foreign land. I would have no special knowledge, no unique insight, perhaps not even the full impression of what I was seeing. Connor imagined he could hear the Wraith Lord sigh in frustration. Unfortunately, I cannot help you avoid your bargain if you seek a guide through the deep mountains. But I can ensure that your bargain is held to the letter, and keep your ‘guide’ from overstaying his welcome. I will not allow you to be taken, from me, or from yourself.

What about Nidhud’s magic? Can he do anything to help?

Sundown is many candlemarks hence, the Wraith Lord replied. The storm won’t permit us to wait for him to rise. I fear you have no other alternative.

Very well, Connor said, though what he contemplated made him cold to the marrow with utter, primal terror. He felt a surge of resentment, and shoved it down. This is no different from choices made in every battle. Someone is in a position to shift the outcome of the battle. Always a choice between one versus many.

Have a care not to value yourself too lightly, Bevin Connor, the Wraith Lord warned. I know of no other medium on the Continent capable of doing what you have done, or able to withstand my spirit in battle, let alone to channel my magic. You are not replaceable. And I would answer to Lanyon Penhallow’s full fury should I permit any permanent harm to come to you.

Bring me back, Connor said, hoping his fear was not too evident in his thoughts. I don’t want to die.

The Wraith Lord did not move to possess Connor, but Connor sensed him make himself apparent to the horde of ocean dead. I am Kierken Vandholt, and Bevin Connor is my valued servant, the Wraith Lord’s voice spoke across the chasm between the living and the dead. At once, the cacophony of voices stilled, and Connor sensed the drowned spirits draw back in fear.

One spirit and one alone will be permitted to speak through him to guide this ship. Have a care that you do not misrepresent your abilities or intentions, the Wraith Lord warned. If you cannot guide us safely through the mountain, if I sense your intentions are malicious toward Connor or toward this ship, or if you seek to harm him in any way or refuse to leave his consciousness when your task is complete, I will cast you out of his body, follow you into the places of the dead, rend your spirit into pieces, and drag you with me to the Unseen Realm, where you will wander for eternity.

For the first time since the voices made contact with Connor, they all fell silent. Those are the terms of the ‘bargain,’ the Wraith Lord said. And in exchange, during the time it takes to guide us by the shortest, safest route through the sea mountains, you will be a guest in his body. I am the final word on when your time is up. Defy me at your peril. He paused. Are there any among you who still desire to be our guide?

Once again, silence stretched into the deep places of the ocean dead. The ghosts were silent for so long Connor wondered if their offer to guide was merely a ruse to possess him.

“If you’re going to get a guide, now would be a good time,” Whitney said tightly. “We’re heading into the heart of the undersea mountains, the area they call ‘Torven’s Spine.’”

I can guide you. Connor peered into the rain and mist and saw the ghost of a man who looked to be in his third decade, with short dark hair and piercing dark eyes.

Who are you? Connor asked.

The spirit gave a rueful chuckle. You mean, who was I? Remon was my name. I was the navigator aboard the Wolf’s Head, a galleon from the Cross-Sea Kingdoms that went down in these waters many years ago.

Pardon my directness, but if your own boat sank, why should we trust you? Connor questioned.

We didn’t sink because of the mountains. We had ‘run the ridge’ and gotten through the shallow peaks. But there was a storm that night, much like the one tonight, and our foremast was struck by lightning. The mast damaged the hull when it fell, and the storm caused us to founder.

All right, Remon, Connor said after he sensed the Wraith Lord signal him to proceed. That meant Vandholt’s spirit had made its own assessment of Remon and judged him worthy. We’re short on time.

Connor took a deep breath, and gripped the ship’s rail with both hands. He closed his eyes, shutting out the howling wind and the driving rain, the crash of the waves and the boom of the thunder. He could sense the Wraith Lord’s presence beside him, and that of Remon. Connor forced his shoulders to relax, took in another breath, and let it out again, opening himself to their guide.

Remon. You may enter.

Remon’s spirit hesitated, no longer self-assured. Then again, Connor had become used to being overtaken by the spirits of others. The chance to possess a living being and, for a time, experience his body as one’s own was not common, and Remon might have needed a few seconds to figure out how to go about doing that.

Hurry, Connor urged. We head deeper along Torven’s Spine every second.

Remon’s ghost came at Connor in a rush, slipping through his skin. Connor jerked, stiffening at the abrupt possession, and he gasped as a long-dead man reveled in the half-forgotten senses of a living body.

Remember, you have a job to do, Connor cautioned.

Zaryae was watching him worriedly, but she did not touch him or move to block his path as Connor walked toward Whitney and the ship’s wheel. For a moment or two, Remon’s consciousness felt besotted with the onslaught of sight, touch, and sound. He nearly lost his footing, grabbing at the ship’s rail as he struggled to adjust to control a flesh-and-blood body after such a long time.

“I’m… all right.” The voice that came out of Connor’s mouth had his tone but not his inflection, speaking the Common tongue with a Cross-Sea accent. “I am… Remon.”

“Nice to meet you, Remon. Now get your ass over here and guide me through the sea mountains before we all end up at the bottom,” Captain Whitney snapped.

Remon dragged himself along the rail, still fastened with a rope that gave him a few feet’s distance to roam. Zaryae hung back but stayed close enough to intervene should help be needed.

Now that Remon had gathered his wits, he moved with the sure-footedness of a man used to living his life aboard ship. He glanced at the sails, assuring himself of their set.

“How exactly are you going to navigate?” Whitney challenged. “The clouds are so thick, we can’t see stars or sun.”

“By the movement of the water,” Remon replied, “and the ghosts beneath the waves.”

Whitney looked as if he had bitten into a sour apple, but he nodded. “All right. Steer me through.”

Whitney stepped back, giving Connor the wheel. To Remon, the worn wood and tug of the weight against the wheel felt as natural as breathing. All right, my brethren. Remon spoke to the ghosts that filled the ether all around them. Show me where we are.

Remon looked out at the storm-tossed seas through Connor’s eyes, and at the same time, Connor ‘saw’ the ocean in front of them through Remon’s heightened awareness. Through Remon’s ghostly perspective, the gray, wild waves became transparent as glass, and Connor could see down into the depths. Massive, black shapes jutted up from the sea floor, tall and jagged as the Riven Mountains, completely submerged except for a few places where the tallest peaks poked their highest tips nearly to the surface. Like the mountains Connor had seen on dry land, Torven’s Spine was a series of ridges varying dramatically in height, with deep clefts between. The base of the undersea mountains was lost to sight in the darkness of the abyss.

Gradually, as Connor watched through Remon’s consciousness, he saw more details emerge. It was as if he were on the ship, in his body, and simultaneously outside of the ship with preternatural senses, so that the heaving waves and crashing whitecaps became translucent to his sight and he was able to ‘see’ the ship moving to the right of a massive mountain ridge.

Remon’s hands were sure and steady on the ship’s wheel. Whitney’s expression was a fraught mix of emotions, and Connor was certain it was painful for the captain to give over control of his ship to someone who was not even a member of his crew, let alone a man claiming to be guided by a ghostly navigator. It was a supreme act of will on the captain’s part to refrain from taking back the wheel, and his fists clenched and released again and again as he fought his battle with himself.

I wish Whitney could see what I’m seeing through Remon’s senses, Connor thought. There’s no way a purely human helmsman could get us through the mountain range in a storm like this.

The ghosts of the depths moved with the Nomad, and Remon perceived them as a faintly glowing strand of light, tracing the perilous slopes and peaks of Torven’s Spine, enabling Remon to guide the Nomad away from the deadly submerged rock.

The storm is making this difficult, Remon said. This area is treacherous in good weather, but with the wind and the damaged sails, it’s almost impossible to avoid moving side to side, and the clearance in a few passes is pretty tight.

Watch out! Connor saw the peak so close off the starboard side that he might have easily poked it with a pike.

That’s what I mean, Remon replied tightly. Whitney’s hands were clenched white-knuckled, so tightly that Connor was certain the captain would have bloody nail prints in his palms. Rocks scraped against the hull, and Whitney’s face went white.

“Steady,” Remon said with a voice not exactly Connor’s. “The draft’s deep enough here despite the tight fit. If we move to avoid scraping, we’ll rip out the hull on the mountain ridge directly beneath.”

Trad and the sailors on the deck below cried out in fear as the hull scraped again. Some prayed to Charrot for deliverance, while others pleaded with Torven to assure their souls safe passage, or begged Esthrane to spare their lives.

Remon’s ghostly senses dispelled the darkness of the ocean depths, and with the help of the thousands of spirits from the Graveyard of Ships, the Nomad made careful headway through the treacherous passage.

“Halfway there,” Remon said with Connor’s voice. Zaryae moved to stand beside him, and reached up to touch his cheek with her fingers.

“You’re burning up, when it’s so cold I’m shivering,” she said worriedly. “Connor, keep track of the time. If he burns up your body, you’ll be no better off than the rest of the ghosts.”

And if I save myself and sink the ship, we’ll all join Remon and his friends—permanently, Connor thought.

He had grown accustomed, through the Wraith Lord’s possessions, to gauging how well his body tolerated the presence of its ghostly guest. Through trial and error, and no doubt helped by the Wraith Lord’s long existence and magic, he and Vandholt had reached an understanding of when Connor was approaching his mortal breaking point.

Remon had no such experience, nor did he have the Wraith Lord’s magic to buffer the strain of the possession. And while the wind whipped around them and rain pelted them, Remon was reveling in the sensations even as Connor’s body shuddered with cold and simultaneously burned from inside.

You’re taking a toll on him, the Wraith Lord warned. Don’t dally.

I don’t dare move faster, unless you want to end up with a smashed hull, Remon shot back. I’ve gotten us this far. Trust me to get us out. Then you can have your precious servant back.

Through Remon’s senses, Connor watched the Nomad make its slow progress through the perilous mountain passes. From what he could make out, thanks to their ghostly guides down below, the problem lay not in the main slopes and peaks of Torven’s Spine but in some of the lesser outcroppings that jutted out to narrow the channel.

By now, Connor was feeling the strain of the possession. Though Remon handled the wheel with practiced confidence, Connor was growing light-headed. The combination of fever and chills sent his body into momentary spasms that were growing in duration and intensity, causing his teeth to chatter badly and his body to go rigid and tremble.

I can’t contain you much longer, Connor said.

We’re almost through.

Connor’s grip on the ship’s wheel was all that held him on his feet, though Remon guided the wheel with utter confidence. It was growing burdensome to breathe, and Connor was certain his blood was near the boiling point. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and he was sure he could feel his blood coursing through his veins.

Beneath them, guided by the faint glow of a thousand drowned men’s spirits, Connor could see ahead of them the end of Torven’s Spine. The longer Remon remained in possession of his body, the more Connor felt a bond to those unfortunate spirits in the depths. At first, he could just make out the glowing trail they laid for Remon to follow. But now, as his union with Remon’s spirit went on, he could hear their voices once again, not an angry howl like before but the low babble of a large crowd of people all talking at the same time. Part of him was intrigued by the conversation and longed to find out their secrets, but Connor resisted the pull, knowing that to join them would be death.

More things existed in the depths of the sea than Connor had dreamed possible. As his bond with Remon grew deeper, he caught glimpses of the abyss through the perceptions of the ghosts that guided Remon. Nightmare creatures wended their way among the spirits, things with lantern jaws and vicious teeth. Corpse-pale, shapeless monsters slithered through the cold currents, eyeless and alien. Stranger things swam in the silence of the deepest waters, down in the lightless bottom of the abyss. And while the ghosts paid the monsters no mind, Connor could not pull his gaze away, equal parts horror and fascination.

“Connor! You’ve got to come back to yourself. You’ve been possessed too long,” Zaryae urged. She shook his arm, trying to get his attention. Remon was clear-eyed and alert, expertly steering the Nomad through the final section of the treacherous passage. Connor knew he was fading, and his tenuous hold on his own consciousness slipped in and out of control.

I will lend you my strength, but neither of us can sustain this forever, the Wraith Lord said. Connor felt the ancient spirit fortifying him, and across the miles, the kruvgaldur with Penhallow surged, giving Connor the strength to rally.

Just a temporary measure, Connor. We’ll need to end your bond with the ghost as soon as the Nomad clears the mountain pass.

I can hang on that long, Connor replied, willing it to be so. He knew that without the Wraith Lord, and without the additional strength he had gained from the kruvgaldur and the ritual at Mirdalur, he would have already lost consciousness, or worse.

Not much longer, he repeated to himself. Almost there. Not much longer…

“Aha!” With a triumphant shout, Remon steered the Nomad through the final, narrow section of the mountains. Twice more, the rocky outcroppings passed so close beneath the waterline that those on deck could hear them scrape against the Nomad’s hull. The sky overhead remained dark with clouds, blotting out the sun, but the driving rain had stopped and the wind, mercifully, had stopped gusting. Most of the day had passed, and the shadows had grown long with the blue glow of twilight. The Nomad sailed onward, and Connor watched through Remon’s heightened sight as the hull cleared the end of the glowing line and sailed into open water.

“We’re through!” Remon cried out, and the men on deck echoed his triumphant shout. Connor gathered the last of his strength, ready to reclaim his body and collapse. But before he could gather his will to thank Remon for his help and demand that he depart, Connor glimpsed something large and dark in the waves ahead of them.

A tanoba was waiting for them.