What an unfamiliar image. I try to picture it—him, young and coltish, overcome by his own abilities—and find I cannot. I blow out a breath. “How do I stop it?”
“Being aware you’re doing it is a good first step.”
“How can you be so flippant about all of this?”
“Would you rather I yelled at you?” he asks, tone mild. “Railed once again about your need for proper training? Frankly, I have grown tired of berating you in the hopes that you come around. It doesn’t seem to work anyway. I figure you will either acceptthat you need to master your abilities…or you won’t.” His eyes slide closed. “Just let me know whatever you choose. I’ll be here when—if—you decide you are ready for a real lesson in Remnant power.”
I mull over his words as Deke steers our flatboat down countless canals. Soren seems perfectly content with the silence. He remains statue-still beside me on the bench seat, his eyes closed, his posture relaxed. I wish suddenly that he was not so adept at shutting me out. His emotions are locked away in an inaccessible vault, secure as the warded door of his bedchamber. It is especially frustrating, seeing as the man always seems to know exactly what I am thinking and feeling—sometimes even before I know myself.
After nearly an hour, the waterways spit us out into the expansive harbor I saw from my balcony. It is much larger up close than it appeared from a distance, dominating the southernmost quarter of the island. There are larger vessels here than any we passed by in the canals—bulky, triple-masted tall ships with carved figureheads at their bows and bundled white sails on their booms; sleek schooners with shallow drafts, fully outfitted with battle-ready cannons. Sailors scurry across long wooden sprits and climb up netted rope riggings as they prepare for departure.
A sudden loud groan of metal shakes the sky. I sit straight up, certain we are under attack, yet neither Soren nor Deke reacts with the slightest bit of alarm. It is not until I locate the source of the racket on the far side of the harbor that I relax. Two massive waterwheels, each taller than a warehouse, start to turn, churning the surface to froth. A second later, the city walls split at the center as the gargantuan sea gate inches open in smooth jolts, permitting entry into the port’s protective embrace.
Everyone from the sailors in the rigging to the bystanders onthe docks turns their attention toward the new arrival. Even Soren cracks his eyes open long enough to examine the fishing rig that is making its way through the ever-widening gap. His relaxed posture shifts in the space between one blink and the next. He abruptly sits up, frame taut with tension. I do not understand the intensity of his expression until I see that the outrigger is towing a much larger vessel behind it, thick ropes straining under the load.
A merchant ship, from the looks of it. I am not familiar with boats, but even I can tell something is wrong from no more than a cursory examination. The sails are not rolled neatly around their booms but flutter loose in the breeze, tattered and wind-torn. No crew scrambles in the rigging, no one races along the decks. No captain stands proudly at the wheel. It appears to be unmanned.
A ghost ship.
“Strange,” Soren mutters. Glancing around at Deke, he jerks his chin to the side of the harbor, where many rowing craft are tied to cleats embedded in the stone. “Take us to the tie-up, will you?”
Deke nods. He, too, bears a strangely unsettled expression—ruddy cheeks gone pale, dark eyes darting continually over to the harbor mouth even as he steers us toward an open spot at the end of the dinghy dock.
We glide to a stop and, with a murmur of thanks to our sternman, Soren hops out, then offers me a hand to follow after him. I barely have time to wave goodbye before I am dragged away. There is an uncharacteristic speed to Soren’s steps, contrary to his typical smooth pace, as we round the harbor.
“What’s going on?”
His hand squeezes mine once, then drops to his side. His eyes do not shift from the main dock where a flurry of sailors aresecuring the towed vessel to knee-high bollards with thick braided lines.
“I don’t know yet. But that ship—theSelkie—was due in from the Southlands weeks ago. We assumed it was caught in the doldrums in the Endless Ocean, or run aground in the Desert Depths off Carvage. It’s not uncommon—the drifts from the Husk Desert blow far offshore, creating league-long shoals that shift with every major storm. Makes it damn near impossible to navigate that coastline.”
“But you don’t think that’s the case now?”
“No, I don’t. I know the captain personally. Her crew has made that run a dozen times without incident. To see her limping into port on a fisherman’s towline…no crew in sight…” He trails off as we cut through a swarm of sailors and civilians, all stretching their necks to stare. They part to give us a path as soon as they recognize Soren in their midst.
We are still a fair distance away, but even from here I can see dockhands positioning a gangplank against the starboard side. A young man, hardly older than Lestyn, races up its length the second it is secured, an anticipatory grin splitting his face. A pair of older men follow after him, their own steps tempered by experience. Or foreboding. They disappear out of sight as soon as their boots hit the deck.
I study the sails as we close the final stretch of distance separating us from the vessel. There is something odd about them. I thought, at first, they were shredded by strong winds. But a closer examination shows more than mere tatters. The thick canvas material appears almost translucent in places. Too thin to effectively catch a breeze. It reminds me of the gauze I use to wrap wounds. Wafer-thin. Filmy. Like…
Cobwebs.
“Soren—” I start.
But my warning is overshadowed by a piercing scream of utter horror. Even from inside the bowels of the ship, it is loud enough to bring all activity on the docks to a standstill.
“What in the deepest hells?” a nearby soldier coiling a length of rope mutters. His voice is drowned out by yet another scream. This one is harrowing enough to electrify the gathered crowd. Some spring into action, others start to flee the scene. But most stand stock-still, staring up at the ghost ship with equal parts trepidation and fascination.
My chin tips up to Soren at the same instant he glances down at me. The look lasts no longer than the length of a heartbeat, but I know what he is going to suggest long before he speaks.
“We should probably—”
“Let’s go!” I yell as I take off running.
Soren matches me stride for stride as we race toward the ship. We fight the thick crowd as we go. Soren starts shoving people physically out of our path to get through. We reach the bottom of the gangplank just as the young sailor reappears at the top. Blood is sprayed down his left side. It doesn’t look like his. His face is white as a sheet. His bellow is one of unadulterated terror.
“ARACHNIDAE!”
Gods.