By the time he heard the first wails of grief and cries of alarm ring out, he had already reached one of the many alleys.
Asha’s pet hounds set up a loud baying. Hannes glanced at the commotion and smiled, content with what he had done as he vanished
into the city streets.
Drifting among the wreckage, Criston awoke coughing and shaking, soaked in salt water—but alive.
The sky above him was mockingly clear and blue. The waves were calm, as though the storm’s fury had been spent once the Leviathan
destroyed the
Luminara
. Apart from the sloshing of waves and slap of water on debris, the world around him was utterly silent.
He was alone.
Criston clung to a splintered yardarm tangled with ropes and a scrap of sail. All around him the water was cluttered with
flotsam and jetsam from the smashed ship: hull planks, sailcloth, leaking crates, bobbing kegs. And bodies. His shipmates.
“Hello!” He listened in the watery stillness for any response.
“Hello?”
The debris was spreading apart, drifting away, and Criston realized that if he was to survive—even for a little longer—he
had to gather whatever he could. Something out there might be vital.
Releasing the yardarm that had held him afloat throughout the stormy night, he swam to the nearest crate, grasped it and,
kicking and splashing, pushed it back toward the yardarm, to which he secured it with a length of waterlogged rope. He swam
out again, farther this time, and retrieved a keg of salted meat. Next, to his great relief, he found an intact cask of water;
thirst would be his worst enemy out here… unless the Leviathan came back.
Criston kept calling out as he swam in wider and wider circles, but he heard no answer.
The corpses floating facedown were sailors with whom he had worked during the long months of the voyage. Many bodies were
smashed and battered, their faces bloated; a few had already been gnawed by predatory fish. Unfortunately, he recognized all
of the men.
He retrieved another yardarm and another long tangle of rope, to which a grappling hook was secured. He brought everything
back to his ever-growing cluster of salvage, including a waterlogged package wrapped in oilcloth. Back on his meager floating
shelter, Criston gingerly unfolded the coverings and found a leather-bound book: the journal in which Captain Shay had made
his notes and drawings of sea serpents.
Criston stared at the smeared ink on the pages, not even realizing that he was sobbing. He rewrapped the volume and set it
among the pile of rescued possessions. Then he set out on his search again.
At last, he did find one survivor—Prester Jerard. The old man was caught in a torn sheet of sailcloth and a splintered spar
just buoyant enough to keep his head above water. Jerard was stunned, groggy, but he responded when Criston clasped him. “Prester!
You’re alive!”
The old man coughed, spat out water, and ran trembling hands through his tangled gray beard. “For now.”
Criston wrapped his hands under the prester’s arms and stroked back toward his makeshift raft. After Jerard balanced himself
aboard two adjacent crates, he gazed about, taking a long time to realize where he was. “Where are the other survivors?”
Criston hung his head. “
I
am the other survivor.”
Jerard touched the fishhook pendant at his neck and uttered a quick, automatic prayer. The old man came out of his daze long
enough to note—in a distracted way—that he had a broken wrist and a deep cut on his forearm. With a strip of cloth, Criston
bound the prester’s wound and set the broken wrist as best he could.
But the scent of blood and bodies had sent out a silent call in the sea, and sharp gray dorsal fins appeared among the wreckage.
With splashing and tearing sounds the circling sharks continued to devour the floating corpses of the
Luminara
’s crew. They had plenty to feed on. Criston and Jerard could only huddle together, and watch, and listen to the sickening
sounds as darkness began to fall. The makeshift raft drifted along throughout the endless night.
The
Luminara
had sailed far beyond all known charts. Criston and Jerard had no hope of returning to any place they knew, even the empty
island of skeleton warriors. In recent weeks, the swift currents had carried the ship in a great circle, and the storm winds
had driven them blindly eastward. But they were still
nowhere
. Their only chance was to stumble upon another shore.
At the height of the storm’s fury, Criston had spotted a beacon that might have been the Lighthouse at the edge of the world,
but he had seen no further sign of it since. He had no way of finding it again… if indeed the vision had been more than his
imagination.
The two ate sparingly of the food Criston had recovered. The next morning he lashed the components of the raft together securely
with pieces of frayed rope. The grappling hook tied to a long, loose cord proved particularly useful, for he could cast it
to nearby pieces of wreckage and haul them in, like a fisherman. With so many sharks circling now, he did not want to swim
about as he had done the day before.
For his own sanity, Prester Jerard told stories and recited from the Book of Aiden as they huddled under a makeshift shade
that Criston fashioned from a piece of sail and a thin spar. The wound in his arm continued to soak the salt-encrusted bandage.
Criston changed the dressing, but the prester was in such pain from his broken wrist that he could not pull the bindings tight.
As the sun dazzled overhead, Criston kept an attentive watch over the waters around him, looking for any sign of land on the
distant horizon, maybe some last miracle from the
Luminara
. Most of the flotsam had drifted far away by now, but Criston spotted a reflected glint floating in the water that was probably
something made of glass. He stared for the better part of an hour, but the intriguing object drifted no closer, apparently
pacing them.
Finally, curiosity so consumed Criston that he dove off the raft and swam toward the object. Jerard kept a sharp eye out for
triangular dorsal fins, while the young sailor retrieved the object—a glass bottle, firmly corked. He grabbed it and stroked
back toward the raft.
The prester cried, “Shark! Shark!” Criston swam faster, not daring to look, until he finally reached the questionable safety
of the raft and threw himself aboard, swinging his feet onto the wet crates and thick yardarms. Panting, blinking bitter water
out of his eyes, he glanced back to see a large shark veering off, having lost its quarry.
As his heartbeat slowed, Criston picked up his prize, hoping it would be something useful. The glass was dirty. Drops of water
sloshed around inside from a leak where a piece of the cork had broken off. He uncorked the bottle, withdrew a tightly rolled
letter: one of the messages he had written to Adrea and cast into the sea. The last time he had thrown a letter in a bottle
overboard had been the day before the storm… and it had drifted back here.
Criston extracted the golden strand of her hair and just stared at it, longing for her. He still had the remnants of her lock
of hair tucked into his pocket, secured there with a brass clip. He was sure now that would be all he’d ever see of her again…
Over the next two days, more sharks gathered, their knifelike fins gutting the surface of the sea, endlessly circling. Criston
and Prester Jerard could do nothing more than watch.
He read the water-stained letter again and again, thinking of Adrea, remembering what he had thought when he’d written it.
Everything was different now. He would not be coming home as he had promised…
On the fourth day, most of the circling sharks disappeared, their fins vanishing into the depths. Criston stood on their wobbly
raft, scanning the water, wondering what could explain this odd new change.
Suddenly, with a tremendous splash, the dragonlike head of a sea serpent rose up, scarlet fins extended, spines outthrust.
It snapped up a large gray shark that wriggled in its fang-filled jaw like a minnow seized by a pelican. The sea serpent tossed
the shark into the air, opened its maw wide, and gulped it down.
Looming high, dripping runnels of water, the creature looked down upon the raft and the helpless men, but it did not attack.
After a blast of steam from its blowhole, the serpent gradually submerged. Criston and Jerard blinked at each other in awe.
For the rest of that day, no shark returned, but a second sea serpent rose up to regard them. It was joined by a third, then
a fourth. The scaly monsters hissed and hooted at one another, contemplating this intriguing object. With an ache in his chest,
Criston thought that Captain Shay would have taken copious notes in his journal.
The serpents circled the raft, drawing closer… just like the hunting sharks, but worse.
Despite her circumstances and her despair, Adrea refused to think of herself as a captive. But that did not mean she was free.
The ruthless Urecari raiders had shouted at her, threatened her. They tied her arms and threw her aboard one of their long-boats,
along with many captured children from the village. They rowed out to the war galleys waiting at the mouth of Windcatch Harbor.
The children wailed and shuddered, cowed into submission after having seen their parents murdered. The few female captives
from other villages were frantic, begging their unresponsive captors for mercy. Adrea, though, didn’t say a word. She didn’t
think she had any words left in her, so she sat back with her lips pressed together, refusing to make a sound. When the whole
world was out of control, this was one thing Adrea
could
control. She would not give them the satisfaction of hearing her say anything.
The Urecari men didn’t seem to notice, or care, whether or not she spoke.
Watching her village recede, Adrea recalled how the day had dawned so brightly. Now it ended in smoke, blood, and pain. She
saw the smoldering kirk on the hill, and realized that Ciarlo must indeed be dead along with Prester Fennan. She had watched
these men murder Telha, and if it weren’t for the baby she carried, she would rather they had killed her as well. She would
live for the child, but even if she escaped, even if she returned home to wait for Criston in the ruins of Windcatch, how
could she ever tell him that his mother had been slain? She could have done more, fought harder, run faster.
The men put all the new captives aboard the nearest war galley, where Adrea again saw the haughty Uraban prince who had killed
one of his own soldiers and commanded that she be taken alive. He shouted orders from a captain’s platform. Only a few women
had been taken from other villages, and none but herself from Windcatch. She didn’t understand why he had singled her out,
why he had taken her alive, but Adrea did not let herself believe that she was safe; the man must have something far worse
in store for her.
With the colorful sails stretched taut and the oars pulling against the current, the war galleys moved off. Adrea trapped
a silent moan at the bottom of her throat. When Criston returned, he would never be able to find her…
* * *
Satisfied with the destruction they had caused, the Urabans turned south again. Seeing the ruins of Ishalem, Adrea realized
that they had left Tierra and entered enemy territory. Now she truly knew that she would be a prisoner forever.
The other captive women whispered to one another, imagining worse and worse fates. Adrea held her rounded belly, felt the
baby there; the thought that her child would be born in enemy hands terrified her more than anything else. Criston’s son or
daughter would either be killed at birth, clubbed to death because the Urabans didn’t want it, or raised among the enemy.
Adrea wasn’t sure which was worse.
She couldn’t understand why the Uraban prince wanted so many captive Tierran boys and girls. With their light complexions
and blond, red, or brown hair, they would never fit in among the other Urabans. She feared they were all doomed to a life
of slavery.
The mysterious prince had come to see her only once. He stood tall over her and spoke in Uraban. Though Adrea recognized a
few words derived from the old language, which Prester Fennan had taught, and caught the gist of his expressions and sentences,
she did not answer him. She gave no sign that she comprehended. She refused to speak.
Later, one of the swarthy crewmen spoke to her in a gruff voice, using heavily accented Tierran. “Zarif Omra demands to know
your name.”
Adrea merely stared at him, renewing her resolve.
Zarif Omra.
So that was the prince’s name. She clamped her lips shut.
“Name!” he shouted. She turned her head away. He slapped her. Her head jerked to one side, but she gave him only a murderous
glare in reply. She actually welcomed the pain, which was trivial compared to the suffering the rest of her village had endured.
She had survived relatively unscathed. So far.
The crewman raised his hand to strike her again, and seemed disappointed when she did not flinch. “Omra says you must live,
but he did not say I can’t hurt you.” The sailor gave her a cold smile. Adrea turned away, ignoring him. He struck her on
the back of the head so hard that her teeth clacked together. She clamped her jaws and refused to speak. Angry, the sailor
stalked off. The other captives stared at her, but Adrea focused only on her own thoughts.
At night, she huddled close to her miserable companions, listening to them moan and beg. She expected the raiders to drag
the women one by one to an open area of the deck, rape them repeatedly, then throw their abused bodies overboard. But they
did not touch the women, or the children.
Making sure none of the Urecari men saw her, Adrea lowered her voice to a bare whisper, trying to find out who had been taken
from Windcatch, which other villages had been raided. Already, her voice sounded hoarse and strange to her. She learned little
from the other women, and sailors came by, growling at the captives to keep them quiet.