The Iris flew.
More cannons blasted—not just from the Lioness but from other ships too. At least five others, now steering this way guided by magic and oars and well-aimed sails. Lights flared across the decks, sailors scurried, and their weapons fired as fast as pistols.
It was too much for Vaness to hold off. It shouldn’t have been—she had toppled an entire mountain—yet for some reason, this was proving too much. So Vivia bolted across the deck. No words for Sotar as she sprinted by. He might have been off the seas for almost two decades, but he wielded the tiller with natural ease. His shoulders bulged as he pushed into each movement. His voice boomed over the madness of battle.
Vivia reached Vaness, braced against the balustrade while two sailors shoved fresh shot into the Iris’s cannon. They ignited the tip; light flared and hissed, unmagicked but deadly.
Then the cannon let loose, and iron rocketed outward, guided by Vaness’s magic. Which was wrong—all wrong. She should not have needed fire. She should have been able to launch those cannons by herself.
The cannonball connected with the Lioness’s foremast. It snapped in two before colliding next with the mainmast.
“Hold steady!” Sotar bellowed, and the Iris listed sharply to starboard.
Vaness fell. Vivia lurched for her. Caught her right before she went overboard. She was cold to the touch, and when Vivia got her upright again, she found the woman’s face pale. Blood trickled from her nose.
“What’s wrong?” Vivia scooped an arm beneath her.
“Nothing.” Vaness tried to pull free. Tried to reach around and grab at new cannonballs whizzing this way, but Vivia held her back and shoved her at the closest sailor. “Take her,” she yelled.
“Get off me,” Vaness snarled, and suddenly she was at Vivia’s side, glaring death. “Do not interfere with me again, Majesty.” Then, as if to prove she was fine despite the blood oozing down her chin, she lifted her hands and caught two more iron balls hurling there.
They slung about in midair in sharp, vicious arcs before flying back toward the decks they’d just abandoned and shooting right back into their cannons.
One explosion. Two. The Lioness went up in flames. Which meant now was the time to sail. “Don’t pass out,” Vivia ordered, but the Empress only bared her teeth. They were bloodied too.
There was no time to fret over Vaness though or wonder what was wrong. The Lioness was scrambling to stay afloat, and the Iris could not miss this chance. Come, Vivia thought, calling to the waters. Begging to the waves. Carry us high and carry us fast.
All around her, the water seemed to laugh, a buoyant lift in her chest. Of power, of the strength that only water—the most ancient of elements—could provide. It crashed against the hull. Hard enough to steal everyone’s legs. Not Vivia’s, though. She was ready for it, and as soon as the waves collided against the wood, she sent it charging onward. A steed that no one could stop.
The Iris barreled toward the sinking Lioness. Wind slammed against Vivia, magicked and natural and thick with spindrift and cannon smoke. Ahead, the warship was a mess of broken wood and blackened fumes. Fires licked across the deck, and sailors sped like rats.
The Iris was headed straight for it. Faster, faster, higher, higher. And just as she knew he’d be able to do, Sotar leaned into the tiller at the perfect moment. Right when Vivia could see the Dalmotti captain, clad in gold, at his own tiller and bellowing orders while his ship dropped low.
He had witches—Wind and Tide—but they were focused on keeping their ship afloat. They could no more stop Vivia and her ship than they could stop Noden and the Hagfishes.
Screams flickered over the winds and waves. Eyes widened and soldiers gaped at the Nubrevnans rushing by. Vivia smiled. A real grin, alive and throbbing through her. No one could stop her. No one could stop her ship, the sails taut with wind and the hull carried on waves that reveled in their own speed. Faster, faster.
Wood streaked by. The Lioness was twice the size of the Iris, as was the second warship closing in on the starboard side. But it wouldn’t reach the Iris before she was past. No amount of magic could move a ship that did not want to be moved.
And the Iris wanted to move. All Nubrevnan ships did—it was their secret. Why Nubrevnans had kept their shores safe for so long against the empires. They had sleek vessels whose sails were more like wings and whose planks and sails were crafted with Nubrevnan desperation. Not even the Shipbuilder Guild of Dalmotti could match that.
More cannons fired, but Vaness was ready this time. She caught, she launched, and her aim stayed true. Distantly, Vivia heard the drum still pounding and Sotar still shouting. But she was so deeply bound to the water that the beat was meaningless. The words incomprehensible.
Faster, faster.
On and on, the half-galley rode the waves, and on and on, the magic coursed through her. She might not have the Nihar rage—not truly—but she had this. A power no man could ever dominate.
It wasn’t until Sotar stood before her, his hands grabbing at her biceps, that Vivia finally allowed her power to soften. And it wasn’t until Vaness was shoving in front of him, her coat and blouse soaked in blood and her eyes aflame, that Vivia finally let her magic dry completely.
“She’s going to pass out,” Vaness said, and briefly her ire gave way to something Vivia thought might be concern.
Maybe, though. Only maybe.
Vivia’s knees gave way. She tumbled forward into the Empress’s waiting arms. She did not go under, however. Not yet at least. Instead she clung quite firmly to consciousness and murmured, “Well done, Imperial Majesty.” She sucked in a ragged breath. “Well done.”
TEN
In the gray hours when moon and sun shared the sky, Iseult nudged Owl awake. The girl pretended not to notice—and Iseult bit back a sigh. Scolding never worked on Owl, and though they had come a long way in their month together without Aeduan, most days, Iseult was the enemy.
Perhaps if she used softer words. Perhaps if she could smile and caress. Perhaps if she offered love and kindness, as Zander had done with Owl in Praga when he’d been her primary guard … then perhaps Owl would behave.
And perhaps I will grow wings too. Iseult could no more change what she was—what her mother had made her—than Owl could suddenly become an obedient child. Which was why the words that escaped her throat as she toed Owl again were “I can see your Threads, Owl. I know you’re awake, and I don’t have time to play your games.”
The mound of blankets shifted; Owl’s Threads flashed with stubbornness. “I want to stay.”
Iseult’s nose wrinkled up. She would not get angry. Stasis in your fingers and in your toes. After all, no one would willingly leave the only true warmth they’d felt in days. Or the only cooked meals.
“It’s not safe for us to stay here,” she said at last.
“It is,” Owl countered. “You’ll just kill the bad people anyway.”
Something hard clenched in Iseult’s belly. She had done her best to hide the killings from Owl, but the child had often refused to look away, just like her namesake, who had kept her eyes open when Trickster had betrayed them all.
Iseult scratched her cheek and shoved the clenching downward to her toes. She didn’t kill because she wanted to; she killed to protect Owl. She killed because, with a magic like hers, it was the only path she could ever tread.