Detan licked his lips and eyed them. Pelkaia had reached some sort of agreement with the watch-captain and was helping him distribute the troops as it were, matching up her crew’s skill sets with complementary sets from the watchers. She’d forgone a face of selium, leaving her Catari blood bare to all who looked at her. Sandy hair, the same color as Ripka’s, fell around her cheeks in waves made frizzy by the rain and sea-winds. She looked harried, but focused. Determined to see this thing through, and to do it well. Detan smiled.
“They’re getting better. Better than me, at any rate.”
Alli’s hand flexed in the sand, trembling from lack of strength. He took it without asking, held it between both of his and stroked the back with care. She didn’t so much as glance his way. He suspected she’d run out of strength. He considered laying his sodden coat over her, but he knew full well her chill was coming from within. The warmest coat in the Scorched couldn’t hold it back.
“I want you to do me a favor.”
“Ask it.”
“My husband, Rei. He has a sister in Salsana, north of here, with a little boy about twelve. He’s started to show some sel-sense…”
“Strong?”
“Unusually.”
He nodded and squeezed her hand. “If Captain Pelkaia won’t get him out of there, I will.”
She swallowed. When she spoke again a soft rattle hissed in her chest. “Lovely sunset today.”
He freed one hand and reached to turn her head away from the crew, back toward the sinking sun. When his fingers curled around her chin, he found her skin cold and clammy. Her eyes, once turned toward the sun, were empty. Glazed with something like tears.
Detan folded her hand into her lap and arranged her with as much dignity as he could. He sat there awhile, holding vigil. Wondering why he couldn’t feel her presence anymore, though her body sat cooling beside him. Nothing had changed, not really. If he ignored the stillness of her chest he could tell himself she’d speak again. That the growing emptiness beside him was nothing but his own fear.
He’d never been a religious man. Never prayed to the stars or the sky unless in jest or curse. Not even when his mother lay still beside him, the bonewither eating her up until there was nothing left but the same emptiness he felt now. The only comfort he’d ever wrapped himself in was the company of his friends, the sureness of his scheming. If Alli had religious beliefs, she hadn’t mentioned them, and yet he felt like he should do something. Felt that there must be something one does to honor the end of a life.
Bel Grandon’s throat, gaping red and pumping her life to the floor, filled his mind. He shivered. What had been done for her, after he’d leapt from Thratia’s dock?
“Detan,” Pelkaia’s voice was soft, but he jumped all the same and glared up at her. “You’ll freeze, sitting in the surf like that.” She offered him her hand, reaching across Alli’s body. He took it, pulled himself to his feet. Brushed sand from his pants and coat.
“The others?” he asked.
“Those who didn’t die on impact are mostly whole. We may lose a few in the cold tonight, or to infection, and the broken bones are always a risk for future illness. But most should survive. Watch-captain Gisald is wary, but thankful to have our help. They’ve agreed not to pursue us once we get them on their way again. We’ve confiscated their weapons for the time being, though most are waterlogged. The selium remaining in their craft is sparse, but…”
Detan felt the sudden cold of the setting sun lance through him. “You will let them keep it to get home, Pelkaia. You will not take it for your ship.”
She kicked at a seashell. “I agree with you. We’ll camp on the beach for the night and move the injured watchers to the Larkspur in the morning. Then we can see about patching up their barge.”
He nodded. “I’ll go back and tell Tibs and the others, maybe grab a few extra rations and tarps.”
“You do that.”
Detan trudged off back down the beach, wishing he’d volunteered to stay behind and get the fire burning instead. His sodden clothes clung to him, felt like tiny knives of ice kissing his skin all over as the night winds swept in.
“Honding,” Pelkaia called after him. “This was the right choice. Thank you.”
He kept on walking, pretending he hadn’t heard, and listened for the soft tread of her feet retreating back across the sands to rejoin her crew. Any other day he’d gloat. He’d dance around her scowling face and sing his own praises, insisting she should listen to him more often. But not today. Not with the chill of Alli’s hand in his no different than the icy brush of the sea. He’d made the right choice insisting they come down here and help, he was sure of that.
He just wasn’t sure he’d made any of the right choices leading up to that moment.
The more he played these games, the more he found doing things for good reasons wasn’t enough. Dealing a blow to Thratia. Sparing a murderous doppel. Making off with a ship and then letting it go.
Convincing Ripka and New Chum that Nouli was Hond Steading’s greatest hope.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and shivered, speeding his steps toward the Larkspur and Tibs. He’d feel better, he was sure, if he had Tibs nearby to explain what an idiot he’d been. It always sounded better when Tibs laid things out for him.
A strand of trees to his left rustled and he paused, expecting some weather-beaten local animal to make its presence known. Instead, a rangy looking man stepped from the trees and stood before him, a nice shiny crossbow leveled at Detan’s chest.
Detan giggled. The man’s eyebrows shot up.
“Something funny, boy?”
“Oh, it’s just been one of those days.” He held his hands up to either side to show they were empty, and was unsurprised when two other men slunk from the trees and patted him down for weapons.
“What are you doing on this island?” the man demanded when his fellows had declared Detan free of weapons.
“Would you believe vacationing?”
Someone clipped him in the back of the head and he sunk to one knee, head swimming. A hand grabbed the back of his collar and jerked him to his feet, touching the scar flesh of his family crest there. He grimaced as his collar was twisted askew so that his captor could get a better look.
“Got ourselves a Honding,” a man said. The one with the crossbow smirked.
“Interesting. Walk, Honding. We’re going to go have a chat with your friends.”
His captor spun him around and shoved him forward, back toward the crew and the watchers. Detan tromped along, wondering if he’d ever be warm again.
Chapter Thirty-One
Lankal would not speak as he lowered Ripka and Enard into the well. His silence shamed her more than any words could, the grievous frown turning down his lips wounded her pride more than a sharp retort. Ripka knew that his disapproval should not bother her. Knew that he had only a partial view of what was happening on his island and her involvement with it. But she’d spent far too long struggling to gain the approval of authority figures not to be made uncomfortable by a kind captain’s disappointment.
The wound in her hand hurt less than that silence.
Enard went down the well first while another harness was found for Ripka. It seemed that, despite the Remnant’s fearsome reputation, the guards didn’t often have reason to drop two people down the well for punishment at once. Or, at the very least, they rarely had two people they’d trust not to kill each other during their confinement.