Dusan managed to keep a lungful of air as the water closed over his head. All sounds were cut off abruptly, the noises of the roaring wind and the ship falling apart above him. His eyes squeezed shut, he felt with his tied hands for the dagger stuck under his ribs, grabbed it, and pulled it out.

The pain hit him anew as the salty water assaulted the wound. It took all his self-control to not let out what air he still had in his lungs. He turned the dagger and tried to cut the ropes binding his hands together. The blade was long, and the underwater currents kept pulling him this way and that. He accidentally sliced at his own shoulder—likely just a scratch, but the surprise of it made him gasp, losing some of his air. His chest hurt, but he continued to cut. This was a long shot, he knew, but Mirche was out there somewhere, with his hands tied up and without anything to cut his bounds, so Dusan had to at least try to reach him.

The pain in his chest was getting unbearable. He used to play in the river as a kid, competing with his friends in staying underwater the longest, but this was different. In addition to the physical strain, he now had his panic to deal with. He couldn’t even tell which way was up or down anymore, and if he tried to open his eyes, he knew the salty water would quickly seal them shut again.

Finally, the wet ropes began to give way under the cutting blade. His hands suddenly had more range of movement. He pulled, and his left hand separated from the bounds, leaving the partly cut bundle of ropes clinging to his right wrist.

He thrashed in the current, kicking with his arms and legs, trying to hold back his instinct to breathe in. His chest was on fire, and panic was swallowing him whole when, at last, the water pushed him out, and cold air hit him in the face.

He gulped it, then sank back under the surface, then managed to rise again, coughing and choking. He blinked, trying to see through the salt in his eyes. It was still dark, and the wind was still strong. He saw the ship in the distance, apparently caught in the very heart of the storm. Some of its masts were missing, and rags of torn sails trailed after it like ribbons. With the poor lighting and the salt burning his eyes, it took Dusan a few moments to realize that the ship was going in circles. If there was a maelstrom there, sucking the ship in, it was only a matter of minutes until he himself would be drawn into it—as well as Mirche, if he was still alive. Still, he couldn’t help but watch.

The ship rushed, swirling and turning and tilting. As waves rose and fell in front of Dusan, he caught a glimpse of the main deck and the flying ragged sails on the remaining masts. Then, he saw only the masts. Then, a particularly high wave swallowed him, and when he returned to the surface, spitting and gasping, the ship was gone.

He thrashed, trying to swim in the opposite direction, to avoid being sucked into the same whirlpool that had swallowed the ship. He could already sense, though, that the current was weakening. The waves around him were getting lower. As he looked up, he could see a couple of gaps between the clouds through which the first rays of light reached down to the gradually calming sea. Around him, pieces of wood, ropes and torn fabric bobbed on the waves. He turned around in the water, taking in his surroundings. His heart jumped as he saw a shape rising and falling on the waves some distance away—unmistakably a man, floating with his face down. His clothes were dark, though, definitely not the yellow tunic that Mirche had had on, and Dusan let out a sigh of relief.

“Mirche!” he called, then coughed, then tried again. “Mirche!”

He turned around in the water, the dagger still clasped in his hand. The skies were rapidly clearing up. He’d forgotten that it was still morning. It had felt like the middle of the night just minutes ago. Now, the sky between the dissipating clouds was blue again, and the sun gradually reappeared.

“Help!” he heard. He swirled around, saw nothing, but began to swim, anyway.

He found Mirche swimming on his back, his tied-up hands pressed to his chest, spitting and coughing and gasping for air, but very much alive.

“Hang on,” Dusan said, grabbing him. “Let me cut those.”

It was easier to dispose of Mirche’s bounds than it had been of his own, now that he could see what he was doing. With his hands free, Mirche turned in the water, facing Dusan. He looked around, then up at the sky, by now mostly clear.

“What was it?” he managed, breathless. “What happened?”

“An airie,” said Dusan, treading water. “An airie owed me a favor, so I used it.”

“You made a pact with an airie? Are you mad?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

Mirche stared at him, then around, at the endless landscape of waves chasing waves. “If so… can you make him take us home?”

“No,” Dusan said, feeling lightheaded. “I only had one wish.”

Mirche blinked at him, then looked down, his frown deepening. “What’s this?”

Dusan followed his gaze and saw around himself what looked like a dark cloud spreading in the water.

“Blood,” he said. “It doesn’t matter, though. I did what I had to do, so this doesn’t matter.”

“Hey,” Mirche said. “Hey, stay with me! Dusan!”

Dusan tried to obey, but water suddenly hit him in the face, and he couldn’t breathe or raise his head. Gradually, Mirche’s voice drifted away, leaving him alone in the dark.

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