Reine shifted her other comb to hold back her falling hair. As she cracked open the door, she handed the first comb to Chuillyon. When he turned to pass it to the captain, she stayed his hand.
"Keep it," she said.
"You do not wish me to come with you?" he asked.
"Just … wait out here. I'll call if I need anything."
"But the goods we purchased … Should you not—"
"Later, Chuillyon."
"Highness—"
"Leave me be!"
She slipped inside, shutting the door. With her hands pressed against the damp wood, Reine heard and felt the bolt slide back into place. The sound still made her stomach clench, no matter how many times she heard it. All of this had begun a moon after she'd been found drifting alone in the boat—the night she had lost Frey.
Reine leaned her forehead against the door, and looked down at another white metal oval on the lock plate's inner side. Twice per year, the highest tides were the worst.
She always left the one comb with the white metal teardrop behind, locking herself in. Without it, only Chuillyon—or Cinder-Shard—could let her out. Nothing could escape this place. She rolled her head upon the door and peered toward the rough opening in the far-right wall.
The space beyond it was nearly pitch-black.
Reine took a long breath, straightened, and headed for that opening. She tried not to look upon the pool's invading seawater, even as she stepped along its rear stone shelf. Too many times, she'd stared blankly across it at the iron gate, waiting for something to come. Half-submerged by the rising tide, the gate, its every detail, had already been branded into her mind. So much so that it had worn away even her fear of the ocean. This "cell," as she'd come to know it, had been excavated so long ago that not even Cinder-Shard knew when.
The tide's welling stench intensified, making it hard to breathe, as Reine stepped into the adjoining dark chamber. She reached out and slid her hand along the opening's inner right side. Her fingers caught on tiny crisp edges, and she stroked them three times.
Dim light rose from the thumb-size crystal resting on a ledge. It was a small gift she clung to in this place, passed to her privately by Lady Tärtgyth Sykion, high premin of Calm Seatt's sages. Reine peered about the space.
A blend of fixtures turned the place into a tight and cluttered cross between a sitting room and a study. Its major furnishings were a small scribing desk, a wooden couch with aging cushions, and a book-laden stone casement chiseled into the opposite wall. She'd tried to soften its nature with tapestries, blown-glass fishing floats of varied hues and such, but nothing changed what it was.
There was no end in sight to this repeated torture, and still she refused to give in. She glanced reluctantly to the right. There was another opening in the sitting room's rear.
"I'm here …" she said flatly, but bitterness leaked in when she added "again."
She heard the rustle of fabric from that next room. That one didn't even have the dim glow of phosphorescent walls. Uneven shuffling footfalls upon stone echoed from it.
A dim, tall figure took shape in the doorway.
Head low, dark blond hair draped around his face. One of his hands clutched the opening's edge.
Reine saw sallow fingers with faint undertones of sickly green. Or was that just the light in the sitting room reflected by mineral-laced walls?
"It will pass," she whispered, stepping closer. "Just one more night."
She would never cry in front of him. He didn't need that further burden.
"I'm here now. Everything will be all right … my Frey."
The seawater reached Chane's knees, and even he grew hard-pressed to advance. He could only guess how bad off Wynn must be.
The steel hoop had long ago cooled and been stored away. The more gates they reached, the more the tide gained on them, until the bars were too deep in cold water to heat up. He had to force them by sheer strength. The last—the sixth—had taken too long.
Shade suddenly vanished in a splash.
Wynn grabbed his arm, about to shout, and Chane quickly hooked the pry bar in his belt, ready to jump in. But Shade resurfaced and paddled back until her forepaws caught on something. She rose, standing only chest-deep.
Chane looked beyond her, clenching his jaw. There was a dropoff beneath the water.
Wynn's forehead pressed against his arm.
"Damn dead deities!" she whispered. "If they don't want anyone to get in, why not just trap the place, kill us off, instead of these endless—"
Chane clamped his hand over her mouth.
He had already wondered about the same thing, thinking that perhaps the tunnel had other uses than simply to let in the sea. But right then, he looked ahead, uncertain of what he saw.
A faint light glowed somewhere down the tunnel.
Glancing down at Wynn, he laid a finger across his lips and slowly lifted his hand from her mouth. He leaned close to her ear and whispered, "Look."
Wynn lifted her head, eyes widening.
Chane glanced down at Shade, once more laying a finger across his lips, and then he peered down the tunnel again. Perhaps twenty, maybe thirty yards ahead, he thought he saw vertical lines of black over the light.
Another gate.
He tried to release fatigue and sharpen his sight, but he still could not be sure. The opening looked smaller than any they had breached … or maybe the bars were just thicker?
Had they finally made it all the way?
Chane carefully slid his boot along the tunnel's submerged floor. His toe slipped off an edge, and he lowered his foot over. He sank above his waist, soaking his tied-up cloak before hitting bottom.
Perhaps it was a reservoir, keeping the end pool filled longer than a high tide. Wynn would sink to her chest. Their packs might get wet, and he would not like that for all the precious books he carried. There was little to be done for it.
"Hold your pack over your head," he whispered. "I will try to lash the staff to your back, crystal upward."
Wynn slipped her pack's straps off, so he could secure the staff, but he was still worried about his books. The ones from the healers' monastery might survive, but Welstiel's journals had some entries made with charcoal sticks. He slipped a pack off his shoulder and pulled out those journals.
Wynn scowled at them, and then at him.
She knew what he intended and did not like it or the sight of them. But she took the journals and roughly shoved them in her pack.
Chane knew better than to thank her and hoisted on his packs.
"We go slowly—silently," he whispered. "And Shade must let me hold her afloat. We cannot have any splashing."
Wynn nodded and touched the dog's face. Whatever passed between them, the meaning must have been clear. Shade only twitched a jowl as he wrapped one arm around her chest. Wynn stepped over the dropoff, and he grabbed hold of her belt.
Chane waded forward in slow steps, flinching every time water splashed even slightly. How would he break through the last gate in silence? With his strength waning, the prospect was almost more than he could face.
This had to be the last one.
Reine sat upon the couch holding Frey reclined in her lap. He was thin and pale, and it didn't matter how many times she'd seen him like this; each time was worse, because each time he looked worse.
At least he was dry, so he hadn't tried to drown himself again. Still, everyone around her—from Chuillyon and Cinder-Shard to all of the family—said he must have seawater to touch as well as gaze upon. It was all that kept him from slipping into pure madness.