Chapter Four: Sea and Smoke

"Son, I beseech of you, to look upon your father with not anger, but pity. It is only once these bones crumble, once these hands wither and gnarl, that the unseen costs of our actions are revealed. As I squandered my vitality strutting from one matter of court to another, counting my victories with each army crushed, with each diplomat out-manoeuvred, I was blind to the neglect I put upon the greatest of my achievements. I was focussed so intently on my ambitions that one day I awoke to find myself an old man unable to rise from his throne and you, my boy, were now grown. It saddens me of so much I have missed of your own victories: your first steps, first words, the burgeoning of your incredible mind, and all other things that must be overcome before one might become a man. So please, my boy, pity this old man who is your father in name only, with no time left to learn from his mistakes. I pray, with all the love which you are owed, that the cycle does not now repeat."

A letter from King Kristoff IV of Forsara to his son, Ulric, written on his deathbed. 3026 S.F.

8th day of Thorec’s Rest, 3042 S.F. - Three years since The End of All Things.

The seas were getting worse. A hitherto gentle swell had turned into a raging roil, the waves pitching and rolling, throwing the little ship around like a cork in a child’s bucket. Winds had picked up to a howling gale, of such a strength that the sails needed to be shortened lest either mast snaps under the pressure. Ole was on the quarterdeck, roaring the teachings of Hass at the heavy iron sky, and in each snatched moment a sailor would whisper a quiet prayer to Njall. Something had really roused his ire, they were saying, and there was a real risk of this developing into an early winter storm. If that happened, at the midpoint between Havnoy and the mainland, they would be in the sea god’s drowned halls by nightfall.

Occupying the hold was row upon row of shot, gun, and powder. The 12lb balls of the fort’s wall guns were too small for Seacrow’s monster 32lb carronades but it would provide more than enough to keep the stern chasers fed and happy for her and Otter both. The real prize was the firkins of powder and enough pistols, pikes, muskets, and swords to outfit a platoon. Ulstea had a mind to arm the survivors of Cursed, turning the bored and restless sailors into a manner of defence force for their little haven island.

Hidden behind the rows of weapons and crates of ammunition, Aina’s hammock swung wildly as the centre of gravity for the ship changed, heralded as always by the crash and roar of water against the hull. The lantern on its hook moved in time, the shadows it cast shifting and dancing to create an ever-changing landscape on the curved inner walls.

None of these things bothered the woman wrapped up in her canvas sling and very few of them filtered through the focus in her mind, fixated upon the title of Principles of Thaumaturgy, even the constant creak and moan of the vessel under stress. She would open it today, read the words, and for but a moment her father would be alive once again. Moisture pricking at the corner of her eyes, she gripped the book by each cover, took a deep breath and...

Something clattered towards the stairs up into the orlop deck. Aina looked up. It had better not be Alvard coming down to disturb her, not so far away from land and a serious drop of drink. Not that it would ever happen again between the two of them. At all. No. No sir.

Shuffling up in the hammock and craning her neck, Aina saw not the dandy mage but Jenta stagger into view, her face tense as she leant upon bulkheads for support. There were only four years between the two of them, but the girl seemed so much younger for them, blessedly untouched by the ravages of the outside world. But she was a Scavenger now and those things would take their toll in time.

‘What can I do for you, little bird?’ she asked, pushing the book into her satchel.

Jenta looked conflicted, expressions shifting between determination, annoyance, and fear in rapid succession. She staggered a bit closer, looked away, breathed, looked back and suddenly all bravado had fallen away to reveal the vulnerability beneath.

‘I... I’m strugglin’, Sparrow,’ she said in a small voice.

‘It’s Aina off duty, hey?’

The girl nodded, hands twisting and untwisting, face drawn in the dancing shadows.

‘I’m strugglin’, Aina...’

Aina shifted, pushing down a surge of some long-withered instinct. She pushed that, along with the images of a girl on slightly younger than this one, firmly into the strongbox at the back of her mind.

Why come here then?

‘And what can I do, little bird?’

A rogue wave hit Seacrow to starboard, eliciting curses from the crew that could be heard even this far down, and Jenta whimpered as she was almost thrown to the deck. That instinct was back, battering at her mental defences, and Aina could not help but let a small bit slip by.

‘Up on in,’ she ordered, shifting onto her side.

With as much grace as can be mustered when attempting to enter a hammock in a roil, the girl got in. Aina ignored the misplaced elbow to the ribs as she settled facing away and put her arms around Jenta, holding her close and rearranging her position to keep blonde hair from her mouth and nose. She was close and warm and, from the way her body subtly shook, quietly weeping.

‘Things a bit much, hey?’ she said quietly.

A mute nod.

‘I can’t say it gets better. Just the way things are in the world now. A great broken mess.’

There was a silence Aina could only imagine as being thoughtful.

‘How d’you cope?’ Jenta asked in a small voice.

How indeed?

‘By being just as broken as everything else,’ she replied softly. ‘No matter what they say, any of this crew is the same. When the world ended, so did this little part in us what makes you wholly human.’

‘Don’t want that...’

‘No-one does, little bird,’ Aina soothed, using a free hand to stroke the girl’s hair. ‘Just try to cling onto that bit for me, hey? No use you going the same way.’

Another silent affirmation.

‘I got you now, little bird. Can’t promise to keep you safe, as nowhere truly is, but I’ll look out for you at least.’

No sound or motion from the girl. By her breathing, deep and regular, Aina could tell she had drifted off to sleep.

Herself she lay there, holding close this girl that was little more than a stranger as the ship groaned and crashed and creaked around them, staring at a spot in her mind’s eye where the defences had broken and long-buried memories had come flooding back in. Atop the crest of the wave of emotion was a single word epitomising everything surrounding this familiar stranger that she only wanted to bring comfort to. One word she had not said aloud in near on three long years: Thorun.

Clutching Jenta closer, her father’s book digging into her back, Aina could not stop the tears when they returned.