Though the sky had calmed some, ragged hints of the storm remained. Great swathes of cloud smeared the sky with grey, and fog lay heavy over the island. Detan gave up any hope of ever being dry again.
If he craned his head just right, he could make out the last remnants of the cloud suck. A vortex of death lancing up from the far horizon. Where once that sight would have sent a spear of fear straight through him, it now gave him a tingle of pride. He cracked a grin up at Tibs.
“We’re the best damned pilots on the Scorched, you know.”
“Woulda been a sight easier if we’d had someone on hand to manipulate the sel.”
Detan winced. “All that fear and power flying around? Couldn’t risk it.”
“Could learn to.”
He scowled and jerked his coat off, wringing the water out even though the persistent mist would wet it all over again. “Been trying. Or has that escaped you?”
Tibs brought both hands up and dragged rangy fingers through his hair, making it stick up in all directions. Tiredness suffused his expression, and it wasn’t just from the long night. Detan saw himself in a lot of those fine lines ringing his friend’s eyes, and each one was a pick to the gut.
“Comes a time a man needs a tutor.”
“And just how–?”
“You know how.”
He could take a lot of abuse from Tibs. Expected it, for the most part. The man’s easy criticisms had become the soothing background hum of Detan’s life. But to be cut off like that, not allowed to finish one of his rambling rants? That stung.
“I’ll talk to her,” he muttered, and gave a pile of rope a desultory kick.
“See that you do.”
Traitor, he wanted to say, but he knew Tibs was right. Knew it was time to reach out for help. The iron stains embedded in his fingernails told him as much. Even if it meant sticking his head in a viper’s nest.
He found her standing side by side with Coss, staring down the storm that boiled across the sea. Though she must be weary, though every limb must weigh heavy with exhaustion, her back was straight, her hands clasped with care behind her as she canted her head toward Coss to hear whatever it was he had to say.
Pelkaia was strong, Detan reminded himself. Had nursed her pain for years, burned her spirit to a cinder seeking revenge and risen again from the ashes; proud, controlled. She was on course for a victory he could only allow himself to dream of. She could help him. She had to.
He let his footsteps be heard against the deck, and their conversation fell silent. Pelkaia half-turned, regarding him in profile for a long moment, then jerked her chin to beckon him. He felt a child, all of a sudden. Too small in his borrowed coat, too small on the back of the world. Just a speck of a man. For a moment he wondered what the point was. Why someone so small as a single soul thought anything they did, or didn’t do, mattered at all. He swallowed. He’d never wanted to be a good man. Never particularly wanted to be a bad man, either. Just wanted to be left alone to serve his family and his home. Wasn’t his fault he was burdened with his gift. Wasn’t his fault he’d been broken over it.
“Morning, Honding,” she said. He stood alongside her, pulled by her greeting. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her, not yet, and so he stuck his gaze on the cloudhead they’d been watching and hung it there.
“Can I have a private word, captain?”
The very fact he’d used her title, and not some silly name, made her cock her head. He felt her curiosity like a cold rainfall, and forced himself to keep on staring out across the oil-dark waters.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Coss said. Detan heard him clap his captain on the shoulder before striding off. When his steps dissipated, a cold sweat beaded on the back of Detan’s neck. Now that he had the chance, he wasn’t sure he could force the words out. What would Tibs want him to say here? She knew what was happening to him, Pits below, it should be her coming to him with an offer to help.
“Well?” she asked, and some trick of the wind brought her perfume around to him – the same vanilla and haval spice blend she’d worn in Aransa. The one that’d given her away. It reminded him that he, too, had his own tricks to play. His own hand full of value.
Reminded him that once, he’d sat cross-legged on this very deck while she ran him through his paces, testing his control. He’d kept up, even though his back had still burned from setting the sky above Aransa alight. Maybe he wasn’t so small.
“Long time ago, you said to come see you, when I was ready. Ready to fight.”
“And are you?”
“No. But I want to be. I need your help, Pelkaia. I need you to teach me to control this new strength you say I’ve awakened.” The words came out stilted, jumbled, his usual rambling and cajoling cut short by the rawness of his need. He didn’t dare look at her.
After the silence had stretched on so long he feared he’d break down into a begging mess, she said, “Things have changed. My crew fears you.”
He swallowed bile. “I know, and I’m sorry. I never meant to… Well, it doesn’t matter what I meant, does it? Just that it was wrong of me. With your guidance, your lessons, it won’t happen again. I swear it. Drug me until I’m docile, if you’d like. Tibs would be delighted, I’m sure.” He tried out a nervous chuckle. She did not join him.
“I remember when I first saw you, card sharking at the Blasted Rock inn. I thought to myself: there he is, that Honding. The one the rumors swirl about. The man who lost his sel-sense in a mining accident – a fire – and disappeared into Valathea for a year, only to return a criminal. A homeless wanderer. A con man and, if the rumors were to be believed, worse. But I knew. I knew no amount of trauma could scare sel-sense from a body. If that were true, the Catari would have discovered it long ago. The stars know we tried.”
Detan’s mind whirled from her change in topic, struggling to find the meaning of her words. Struggling to find an angle he could use, a way to show her she could trust him aboard her ship, amongst her crew. “Your people tried to scare the sel-sense from themselves? Why?” he asked, to give himself more time to think.
“In special cases, yes. We knew of deviant abilities, of course – though we did not call them as such, they were normal variations to us. We named them: illusionist, mirrorworker, windsingers, painters for those who can shift sel to only one color. I never dreamed you were what you are. You’re supposed to be extinct, Honding, did you know that?”
He snorted. “Certainly many have tried to make that a reality.”
“Not you – your talent. By the time I was born your talent-brothers and sisters were already believed to be gone from the world. My people had tried everything to expunge the talent, you understand. But it could not be done. Your ability is too… volatile. Too dangerous. Do you know what we called your type?”
“No.”
“Worldbreakers.”
“A bit dramatic,” he grated, gripping the rail.
“I thought so, at first. But we had stories. Folktales, I thought, but they were grounded in history. Tales of your type banding together, overthrowing our leaders, wiping out rival tribes by bringing their local firemounts to roaring life. The Catari thought… We thought, that we’d purged your strain. But some must have escaped. Perhaps a distant ancestor of yours, fleeing north to the Valathean archipelago. Perhaps that is where your family got their sel-sense from, and why your great-grandparents were drawn to the Scorched. I cannot say for certain.
“I have taught my crew to call you a firebug, Honding, because I do not want them to know what you are capable of. I will not allow them to learn otherwise.”