“You’re wearing a crown as well,” Artemisia tells me. “You have to hold your head like it.”
“How close are we letting them get that they can see that?” one of the Fire Guardians asks—a woman named Selma.
“Not too close,” Artemisia says. “But they’ll have telescopes. More advanced versions than the ones you’re used to. I don’t want to take any chances. That’s why I wanted to see the bodies of the guards, since they’re the only ones who might be recognized.”
I glance at the two Fire Guardians designated for those roles and have to restrain a gasp. While the others retained their own faces with different coloring, these two have been changed completely. I didn’t go with Artemisia when she went to inspect the bodies, but I can still tell she did a thorough job of it.
“You have to do yourself as well,” I say. “With your hair, you’ll be recognized instantly by anyone on board who met you at the palace.”
Artemisia’s eyes narrow, but she nods. She closes her eyes again, and this time I watch as her own appearance ripples like the surface of a lake, shifting and changing. When she’s done, she looks like any Kalovaxian shieldmaiden with ivory skin and golden hair cut bluntly at her jaw.
“Good,” I tell her. “Now it’s time.”
We file out in a procession. When we reach the shore, Artemisia waves her arms in the air so wildly, she looks ridiculous.
“What are you doing?” I ask her.
“To them, it looks like I’m holding a Kalovaxian flag,” she explains.
At first, nothing happens, but then the ships begin a slow trudge forward. We could fire on them now, but without Heron to use his Air Gift to drive the fire farther, there’s a significant chance we would miss and then the ships would flee. No, we have to ensure that all six of them sink. Otherwise, they’ll come back, and we have enough to worry about at the moment.
We have only the one chance, so we can’t fire too early, but if we wait too long, we run the risk of Artemisia’s magic fading. That can’t happen, either.
Again I wish Søren were here. He would be able to tell us exactly how close the ships would come to shore before dropping anchor. He would be able to anticipate exactly how the crew would react to the attack. But instead he’s locked in a dungeon.
An eternity stretches out around us as the ships inch closer, painfully slow. I know that I need to wait, but fire itches at my fingertips, begging to be used, and it’s all I can do to hold back. The others are growing restless as well, fidgeting and talking among themselves. The sun overhead beats down on my shoulders, hot and heavy.
“All right,” Artemisia says. “They’re too close now to turn away. The tides are on our side.”
The ships are closer than the camp was from the other side of the lake, but not by much. I would feel better if Heron were here again to guide our fire, but he’s too weak now. That kind of effort would fully drain him. I swallow my doubts and brace myself, drawing my hands up. The others do as well, following my lead.
Artemesia drops our disguise, and I let the first ball of fire fly, throwing it as hard as I can at the closest ship, but it misses by fifty feet at least, landing in the ocean with a splash and a sizzle. My heart sinks like lead.
The others around me try, but though some get closer than I did, no one manages to hit a ship. Seeing the attack, the ships begin to panic. From this distance, I can make out crew members running, can hear the dim shouts of captains giving orders. To turn around, I imagine. To flee. The tides are on our side, Artemesia said, but if we can’t reach the ships, tides won’t help us much.
“Art!” I shout, a new idea taking shape. “Bring those ships closer. Wreck them on the shore if you have to.”
Artemisia acts before the words are fully out of my mouth, slashing her hands violently through the air. She throws her arms wide before bringing them in front of her and pulling them into her chest. As she does, a wave rises behind the fleet, then rushes forward and pushes the ships with it as if they were no more than child’s toys floating in a bath.
“Again!” I shout to the other Fire Guardians.
This time, when I throw a ball of fire, it strikes true, hitting the front ship’s hull with a thwack that echoes across the expanse of sea. Fire catches the hull and begins to spread quickly.
Many of the other Fire Guardians’ blows find their targets as well, though a few fall harmlessly into the sea instead. Enough hit to cause damage. The lead ship is already sinking.
I glance at Artemisia, winded and doubled over, hands on her knees.
“Can you do it again?” I ask her. “We can’t have any survivors.”
She looks up at me, still out of breath, but her eyes are hard and determined. She nods, straightening and squaring her shoulders.
“If you weaken them more, I’ll finish it,” she says, her voice tired but sure.
I nod and ready myself for another strike, aware of Ampelio’s Spiritgem glowing and hot around my neck. I focus my energy on the front ship and throw another ball of fire toward it. The sails catch fire this time, quick as tinder.
Fireballs fly through the air one after another, thrown by the other Guardians. After that, not a single ship remains unlit. They burn bright against the afternoon sky, and crew members begin to jump off, abandoning ship before they, too, end up burnt.
People. Sta’Criveran sailors who are only following orders, only doing what their king told them to do. People with lives and families.
People, I remind myself, who are standing between Astrea and her freedom.
“Now,” I tell Artemisia, my voice coming out more level than I feel.
She doesn’t hesitate. This time, the wave she builds is bigger than any I’ve seen from her, taller than the highest tower in the palace, taller even than some of the spires in the Sta’Criveran capital. When she brings it crashing down, screams pierce the air, loud enough to deafen, loud enough to shake the very earth.
But when the waves turn calm once more and floating planks of wood are the only remnants of the Sta’Criveran fleet, there are no more screams, no more shouted orders, no sound at all apart from our own labored breathing and the erratic pounding of my heart.
* * *
—
Guilt is not the right word for what I feel as we trudge back to the camp under a heavy blanket of silence. I’m not a stranger to guilt—how it gnaws at your insides until you feel sick with it, how it plagues your nightmares until you think you’ll go mad. This is not that. Thousands of people are dead by my hand, on orders I gave, yes, but I have no regrets about it. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t hesitate to do exactly the same.