At her command, Kstled sent two armsmen to search through Nikli’s things. She watched closely, but the captive man showed no sign of Voidbringer powers; he merely drooped in his bonds.

“Tell me, Nikli,” Rysn said. “When we search your things, what will we find? Proof that you’re the one who poisoned the ship’s pet and put the worms in our grain?”

Nikli refused to meet her eyes.

“You want me to turn back,” Rysn said. “Why? And how did you do that trick with the santhid?”

When Nikli didn’t respond, she looked to the Lopen.

“There’s no way to tell if he’s a Fused, gancha,” he explained. “At least, no way I can tell. Queen Jasnah, sure, she could do it. But to Rua and me, he looks like a regular person. Even cutting him won’t work. A regular singer, they would bleed blood the wrong color. But a Lightweaver? Well, he could change that.”

“Could we have Cord inspect him?” Rysn asked. “And see if she spots any strange spren?”

“Worth a try,” the Lopen said, and went to fetch her. Rysn didn’t expect much, unfortunately. Cord had been around this man for the entire trip. If there had been something to spot, surely she would have noticed it already.

Indeed, after a quick inspection, Cord just shrugged. “I don’t see anything unusual,” she said in Veden. “I’m sorry.”

“We’ve taken his assistant captive, Brightness,” Kstled said softly. “Just in case.”

“Plamry knew nothing of this,” Nikli muttered.

“What do we do with him?” Kstled said.

Normally, she’d have thrown him in the brig. Plamry too, as she wasn’t certain she could trust the man. But her ship was approaching a mysterious storm. Traversing that, then exploring the island beyond, would consume her crew’s attention. Did she really want a possible Voidbringer sitting in her hold?

Unfortunately, if he was a Voidbringer, executing him would do no good—he would simply claim a new body at the next Everstorm. And if he wasn’t one, she keenly wanted to interrogate him once the mission was finished.

“Cord,” she said. “A moment, please.” Rysn pulled herself a little way to the side, and Cord joined her. “If he were a servant of one of those . . . gods you told me about,” Rysn whispered in Veden, “the ones that guard treasures? Would there be a way to know?”

“I have no idea,” Cord said softly. “The Gods Who Sleep Not are powerful. Terrible. Cannot die. Cannot be captured. Eternal, without body, capable of controlling cremling and insect.”

Delightful.

“Radiant the Lopen,” Rysn called, “would you and Huio fly our captives to the main island of Aimia? Bring some manacles and lock them to whatever convenient feature you find. Give them some food and water. We’ll leave them, and recover them after exploring Akinah.”

“Sure thing, gancha,” the Lopen said.

It wasn’t a perfect solution; she fully expected Nikli to have found a way to escape by the time they returned for him. But at least she’d have him off her ship. Voidbringer, god, or simple traitor, this seemed the best way to protect her crew. She’d send word of his location to the Thaylen watchpost. Plamry, at least, might be innocent. She didn’t want him left alone if something happened to the Wandersail.

One of her sailors arrived with manacles, and Rysn watched—discomforted—as Nikli and Plamry were flown off. Storms, did she need to suspect every member of her crew of being an enemy Lightweaver?

The only thing she could do would be to have the captain and Kstled interview every crewmember, to search for anyone who seemed off. Kstled went to join Captain Drlwan on the quarterdeck—she’d been informed ahead of time, of course. She would make an announcement to the crew.

Eventually, the sailors sent to rummage through Nikli’s things returned with another bag of poison and, curiously, an annotated recipe book written in Azish.

Rysn looked through this, finding notes that said things like, “Humans prefer salt in abundance” or “cook longer than you think will be required, as they often eat their meals mushy.” And, most alarmingly, “This will cover the taste” in reference to a spicy dish.

The implications haunted her. If his attempts to get them to turn back hadn’t been successful, would Nikli have poisoned the crew? It made a terrible kind of sense—they’d have needed another cook if Cord was imprisoned, and Nikli had bragged to her about his cooking ability. She could see a world where he was put in charge of the ship’s galley, and the rest of them unwittingly ate his deadly meal.

It was time to put some extra precautions in place. A few rats tasting each meal before it was served to the crew, perhaps?

Who are you really? she wondered at the distant figure. And why are you so intent on keeping us away from this island?

 

 

11

 

 

The Lopen gained new respect for the Thaylen sailors as the ship breached the storm around Akinah.

He’d spent the last few weeks sitting with them at meals, climbing with them on the rigging, scrubbing the deck alongside them, or swapping stories as they swung in their hammocks at night. He’d even picked up a little Thaylen. He was living on a sailing ship, so he figured—sure—the best way to pass the time was to follow Huio’s example and try to become a sailor.

Lopen had heard them talk about the terrifying experience of facing down winds and rain while on the sea. You didn’t sail a storm, they’d explained. You hung on, tried to steer, and hoped to survive until the end. He’d felt the frightened tone in their voices, but Damnation, he felt something ten times worse as the Wandersail headed into the strange storm.

He’d flown about in storms, sure. He was a Windrunner. But this was different. Something primal inside him cringed as the wind made the water churn and froth. Something that trembled as the darkening sky painted the ocean with new ominous shadows. Something deep in his heart that said, “Hey, Lopen. This was a baaaaad idea, mancha.”

Rua, naturally, took it with a grin on his face, having adopted the shape of a skyeel with human features. He swam through the air around Lopen’s head as the ship began to sway like a child’s toy in the bath.

“Lopen!” Turlm called, rushing past with a rope. “You may want to get belowdecks. It’s about to get wet up here!”

“I won’t melt, hregos!” Lopen called back.

Turlm laughed and continued on. Good man, Turlm was. Had six daughters—six—back home in Thaylen City. Ate with his mouth open, but always shared his booze.

At his warning, Lopen took a solid hold on the railing. It was strange to see the ship stripped of most of its sails, like a skeleton without the flesh. But this ship, sure, was special. Fabrial pumps would supposedly keep it bailed, no matter how much water washed onto the deck. And there were stabilizers that used attractor fabrials. Those would shift weights around in the hull—crazy, that stuff was built inside the hull—and keep the ship from capsizing.

At the captain’s orders, the oars came out. They used those for fine maneuvering when trying to ram enemy ships, but here they could reposition the ship to take big waves the right way. When caught in bad weather, ships would try to “run” the storm. That meant going with the wind, only in a specific way that sounded extremely technical to Lopen. He’d nodded anyway, since the words had been quite interesting, particularly coming from the lips of mostly drunk men.