Everything stopped.
Joron sat before the spire.
Bathed in light and then plunged into darkness. The forest, his crew, the island – all were gone. He hung between Skearith’s Bones, a thousand shining lights spread out around him.
He heard a single call – like that of a maidenbird – and the world came back fast at him, a riotous blur of colour and sound.
“Does it wake?” Farys said.
Joron blinked. Once. Twice.
He stared at the gullaime, hoping for some sign, but apart from the noise ceasing nothing had changed: the creature appeared as dead as it ever had. Though it was not, he was sure of that.
“How long will it take, D’keeper?”
“I do not know, Farys.” He took a deep breath. “But I do know I am glad that noise has stopped.”
“Noise?” She looked puzzled.
He did not know what to say. Had they not heard it? So in the way of officers everywhere who did not want to explain themselves, he changed the subject:
“Meas will need us at the tower.”
“My old shipwife,” said Ganrid from behind him, “told us you should never leave a gullaime. Said they run if you do. Get themselves in trouble, or killed.”
“Well, Meas is not your old shipwife, and our gullaime is like no other.” Joron looked up at Skearith’s Eye, which was well over the halfway point of the sky. “We will leave it here. No one will hurt a gullaime, and if we are successful at the tower we can pick it up on our way back.”
“And if we are not successful, D’keeper?” said Ganrid.
“Then no one will care.”
The forest had no wish to yield to the women and men pushing through it. It had no interest in their quick lives or the events that they considered so important that they had to hack and slash their way through. The gion and varisk forest, with all its attendant flora and fauna was to all intents and purposes eternal, and if it had any consciousness at all, the mission of Joron and his crew would not have concerned it.
For Joron Twiner, there was little but concern. Skearith’s Eye was now slipping down the blue of the sky, and with every degree the deckkeeper felt the sand in the glass running out. When they came across breaks in the forest canopy he looked to the east, looking for the white smoke that Meas had told him to expect when the tower was taken. But no smoke came, and it worried him. If they had failed and she was dead, he would command Tide Child, but for how long? How long before the crew overthrew him and turned the ship into a raider? Would Joron have the courage to die rather than acquiesce to such a thing? He doubted it, and what would his father think of that? Would he turn his back on him when Joron approached the Hag’s bonefire? Something sank within him, and the sweat on his brow was no longer from just the heat.
No, she must live. She had given him something, woken something within him. He did not understand it, but felt it was right. Felt himself becoming someone new, someone better. And he did not feel she was finished, that he was finished.
And had she not said she would never die on land? He could believe that. Most likely she waited for Joron to bring up his remaining crew to assault the tower. He needed to hurry. He needed to make sure he did not let her down.
“More thorns, D’keeper,” said Old Briaret, her face drawn into a long frown. “Hierthrews. They will cut us to pieces if we try and go through.”
“Then we go round,” said Joron, raising his voice. “Anzir, we go round.”
And so it went, hacking and slashing. Stopping to listen when Anzir thought something may be lurking in the forest. Whether human or animal, all Joron knew was that he would rather fight any number of women and men than the terrible black tunir he had seen on the beach.
He found himself cutting through the jungle by Farys. She was bleeding from a wound to her arm, and he could see that every time she swung her curnow it caused her pain.
“Where are you from, Farys?” He asked, more to distract her from her pain than out of real interest.
“Fallhulme, D’keeper,” she said. “Old island. Used to be where they dumped keyshan hearts, and ain’t a woman or man ever been born there that were Bern.”
“Few of us are Bern or Kept,” he said,
“My mother died bringing me to life, otherwise I were perfect before.” She pointed at her burned face and then looked away as if ashamed. And Joron wished he had not started the conversation as he had no wish to hurt her, and little understanding of how to make someone feel better.
“My mother died too,” he said, wanting her to feel less awkward.
“Really?”
“Ey. My father raised me as a fisher.”
“My father died when I were not old. And my uncle sold me to a fleet recruiter.” Joron did not answer. He had only intended to distract her, but now she seemed intent on telling him her life story, and he was not sure he wanted to know. “Went to a ship called Keyshanheart. The boneglue caught one night, and I were trapped in the hold. I got out, many didn’t. Though most thought I would die in the hagbower – from the fire, see?”
“But you did not.” He tried to make his voice light. Tried not to think about being trapped in a burning boneship.
“Oft wished I had, D’keeper,” she said, her voice cracking, and turned her face from him.
“Well, if it helps any, Farys, I am very glad you did not,” he said.
She turned back, eyes wet, streaks cut in the sweat on her face by tears.
“Thank you, D’keeper.” And he thought maybe he should ask how she came to be on the black ship, but then did not because he knew it may be heard as an order. Such things were a deckchild’s secret, to give or not as they wished.
“Come on,” said Joron, raising his voice so all could hear. “Meas has not taken the tower yet as I see no smoke. If we do not hurry we will miss out, and who knows what riches these raiders hide?” Predatory grins greeted that, though Joron had to tighten his hand around the hilt of his blade to stop it shaking at the thought of action. When he closed his eyes he saw the raiders from the clearing running towards him, felt the terrible, bone-numbing fear that had rooted him to the spot.
Odd that despite his fear of pain and death he could still lead his crew towards it – through the thorns and past the vines, looking in vain for the smoke, occasionally sending someone up the gion to spy out the land ahead. His arm ached from slashing with the curnow and his legs ached from clambering over roots and fallen vegetation. His mind ached from staying alert to any threat that may emerge from the forest.
And still, when the cry came from above – “I see the tower!” – it felt like too soon.
All action slowed. No longer did they cut through the forest making little attempt to stay quiet; now they crept forward, Anzir still at their head. Joron checked that everyone wore the black armband that marked them as the dead.
Near the edge of the forest, where the smell of the regular fires used to keep the area clear around the tower was strong, Joron heard a voice.
At first it was faint, little more than another noise among the thousands of the forest, filtered as it was through bird calls and the buzzing of insects and the hiss of wind and the creak of growing gion and varisk stalks. Then he began to pick out the name “Meas” being repeated time and again like a mantra. Even nearer the tower, and he could make out the tone, mocking; a man was mocking Meas, and something about the voice was familiar.