“You still have Tibal. You still have your freedom. You should be able to achieve the same level of control you had in the days before Aransa. So what changed you?”
He stared at his arm. The heat of the raw spot of skin he kept scratching radiated through his sleeve. “The injection.”
“Yes. You saw, for a moment, what Coss sees when he uses his sel-sense. It’s hard for him, he can’t always see it. Can’t always make it work. What you saw is the limit of his sense, taking the small particles eddying in the winds and condensing them together. He’ll be aching for a week for that effort. But thanks to that injection, you’ve seen it now too.”
“It wore off,” he snapped. “I can’t see what Coss sees.”
“Anyone can tell rain is wet. Anyone can feel damp in a cloud. But it takes a special sense, an unnatural nudge, to feel the moisture in every breath. The tinge of water in the desert winds. It’s there. It’s always there. You saw sel’s omnipresence. That’s a hard vision to shake. I suspected, when you turned that tiny drop into more at Cracked Thorn, but–”
“I can’t see it anymore,” he insisted, and took a deep breath to push his anger aside. “When I reach for my sel-sense all I see is the sky as you see it, maybe even less refined. All those little lost particles, too small to fight the currents of air and rise upward, they’re gone. I’m blind to them now.”
“You don’t need to see them to know they’re there. You aren’t losing control, Honding. You’re getting stronger.”
She pat his knee and stood, striding off into the forest in the direction the scuffle had sounded. There wasn’t a care in the world in her stance, in the sway of her hips or the easy roll of her steps. Detan scowled after her, hating her for being at ease with the world when he was so torn up inside. He relaxed his face and shook his hands out. Harboring a grudge against Pelkaia for being happy wouldn’t help anyone, least of all himself.
Probably he should have been worried about that silver-barked tree catching flame on the other side of the firepit, but he had a hard time rustling up any feeling aside from a vague sense of self-pity.
He lost track of time, sitting there letting the heavy mist in the air dilute the blood on his hands until nothing was left save a ruddy orange stain. He ignored the shouts in the trees, the scuffling and twang of bows nearby. Pelkaia’s crew would win through the night, or they wouldn’t. He’d deal with the consequences of either outcome when they came to find him.
A crunch of leaves nearby brought his head up, made him focus on reality once more. Tibs slipped through the trees, narrow as they were, and settled on the log beside Detan where Pelkaia had sat. His hat dangled from his hands. He spun it round and round by the brim between his fingers.
“Rough night,” Tibs said.
“Had worse.”
“Every night listening to you snore is worse.”
Detan snorted, and Tibs clapped him on the back. “Everything’s secure. Pelkaia’s crew helped the watchers patch up their barge and they’re going to go on their merry way in the morning. Don’t much like the look of that repair job, blasted crew was all left thumbs slapping it together, but it should hold to Petrastad. Watch-captain said he’d tell his superiors back home they lost us in the storm.”
“And us?”
“We’ll spend the night here, and set out for the Remnant in the morning.”
Detan looked up at the sky, at the stars turned into foggy blurs by the smeared clouds and angry winds. “Hope she’s ready for us.”
Tibs chuckled. “This is Ripka Leshe we’re talking about. She’ll probably be queen of the place by the time we get there, ordering Nouli to figure out some new contraption to make food distribution more fair and efficient while forcing New Chum to lead a team of inmates and guards alike in scrubbing the place from top to bottom.”
“That’s our girl.” Detan snatched the hat from Tibs’s fingers and plunked it on his too-wet head. He stood, scrubbing the last of the blood clean on his Fleetie coat, then chucked the coat into the remaining fire. It sparked, warming his cheeks. He brushed his hands together, wiping away his troubles with each stroke. Ripka waited. He was not going to let her down, no matter what strange poison had taken hold in his veins.
“Come along, old chum. Let’s go see if we can rustle up some warm food and warmer blankets.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The scuffle of the crew on deck dragged Detan from a dead sleep. He cracked an eyelid, regretted it as the morning sun lanced straight through to the back of his skull, and groaned. Someone elbowed him in the ribs and he grunted, flopping from his side to his back.
Tibs’s head made a mighty fine sun block. Detan peeled both eyes open and wriggled his fingers and toes to be sure they all still worked. He seemed whole, more or less a few shreds of dignity.
“Morning, princess,” Tibs drawled and dropped something round and light onto Detan’s chest. It bounced off with a hollow whump.
“Morning yourself. Did you even bother pretending to sleep, or does the crew now suspect you of undead strength?”
Detan rolled himself to a seat as Tibs settled down on a crate beside him. They’d spent the night huddled up against one of the cabin walls, letting the eave above keep the rain off even as the wind pounded through their thin blankets. He rolled his wrists and shoulders, listening to the cold muscles and joints pop and creak.
Coss had taken pity on them and loaned Detan a new coat and Tibs a thicker blanket, but still the wind had bitten. Detan would have asked the crew to let him sleep on the floor of one of their cabins under any other circumstances, but the body language of all involved made it clear as a spring rain he wasn’t wanted. Not even Essi had had so much as a smart remark for him. They were tolerating him, but just barely.
“I believe it’s you they think came back from the dead, walking on board covered in blood like that.”
“Mist got most of it off.”
“Not nearly enough.”
Detan fumbled until he found the stale bread roll Tibs had tossed him. It was soggy with mist, which did nothing for the flavor, but at least made him feel like he wasn’t about to crack a tooth with every bite.
“I bet New Chum and Ripka are eating better than us,” Detan muttered around a mushy mouthful.
Tibs snorted. “I bet rats are eating better than us. Haven’t had a good meal since…” His eyes crossed.
“Um… Cracked Thorn?”
“Grass millet and stale beer don’t count.”
“Sweet skies, Tibs, I can’t afford to please your refined palate.”
“You can’t afford to please a donkey’s palate.”
“I’d rather have an ass for company.”
“You’re in luck, sirra, you’ll always have yourself.”
That should have cheered him, Tibs calling him an ass always brightened his spirits, but still the bread tasted like ash in his mouth, the water stagnant and bitter. Heaviness dragged at him, a weight that had nothing at all to do with tired limbs and lack of sleep. A weight not even Tibs’s cheery barbs could lift free. Detan thought about saying as much. Thought about asking Tibs to just let him cry his heart out on his shoulder. But he didn’t even have the energy left for that much. He caught Tibs watching him through the corner of his eye and flicked his gaze away, studying the crew.
There weren’t many aboard, just enough to make it look like the ship was staffed enough to avoid suspicion, and none of them looked like they were born to the jobs they worked. Well, except maybe Essi. That girl could shimmy up a mast pole like her favorite sweet was waiting on top.