Dauntless Path

Chapter 4

Outside, the sailor I’ve dubbed Bull drags me along, his expression disgruntled.

Something low and white flits by overhead. Bull looks up with a jerk. A great white owl settles on the wooden spar that holds the sail wide on the mast. The owl gazes down at us, golden eyes bright, its feathers pearlescent in the light of the moon.

Bull glances from the bird to me, his expression shifting to dislike tinged with fear.

“What’s keeping you?” the sailor by the hatch demands. It’s the one with the thornbush beard.

“She’s brought an owl to roost here.” Bull makes a warding gesture, as if anything evil would fear flapping hands.

owl“They’re natural creatures,” I say dryly.

“Shut up! No one asked you. Get down there and hopefully the thrice-cursed thing will go away.” Bull shoves me the final distance to the hatch. I trip and stumble to my knees, a hand’s breadth away from tumbling through. My left hand grazes the floorboards as I catch myself, pain flaring through my arm.

“Captain said no, eh?” Thornbush asks, tilting his head back to look for the owl. “Didn’t think he’d mind.”

“She’s got Red Hawk’s sign on her.”

“Red Hawk?” Thornbush repeats. “There’s a brute I don’t want to meet. Heard he whipped a pair of men b****y and then strung them up in a public square not three months ago for crossing his laws, and they weren’t even thieves.”

“That and a dozen other killings, easy,” Bull says, giving me a nudge with his boot. I gather myself, breathing through the last of the pain, and start down the ladder, trying not to think about their words. Bren isn’t Red Hawk, I remind myself. At least, he’s always insisted as much, despite my occasional doubts on the matter. Regardless, right now, whatever Red Hawk’s done is protecting me. That can only be a good thing.

The owl hoots, a low gravelly sound that carries across the air. The men glance up, unnerved. At least it takes their attention away from me, giving me the time I need to descend safely into the familiar darkness of the hold.

“And she’s got an owl to announce her death.” Thornbush’s voice floats out over the hatch. “I wouldn’t want any piece of her, myself.”

At the bottom of the ladder, I look around the hold carefully. I’ve been through it twice before. The first time, I had a sack over my head and was in shock from losing my finger, unable to count steps or notice anything else about my surroundings. The second time, I was too worried about not angering Bull. Now, I use the time the owl has bought me to study the hold. It’s not particularly deep, but that’s to be expected for a river galley. It is long and wide, filled with crates tied down for the voyage from the king’s city to the port city of Lirelei, where the river meets the sea.

Perhaps we could hide ourselves in the crates and wait for them to be unloaded before we make our final bid for freedom. My knife may be made of bone, but it is Fae-made and was gifted to me by the Fae mage Genno Stonemane. It can cut through wood as easily as meat. I might be able to get us out of our room and hide us among the crates, as long as we time our escape for our arrival at a dock. Sneak out too early, and the sailors will realize we’ve hidden ourselves and search the hold until they find us.

might“Move,” Bull says, grasping my arm again as he reaches the bottom of the ladder. It must be his favorite word.

I shuffle along, glad that he doesn’t choose to walk too fast down here. My leg is steadier now, but I want every moment I can outside of the cell. Thornbush follows behind us to make sure I get put away without any trouble.

I wait as Bull sets down his lantern and unbars the door, swinging it open. As he turns toward me, a bucket comes flying through the opening, slamming into his head and drenching him with filth. He falls backward with a shout, his shoulder thumping into a crate. I back up in shock.

No. No, no, NO. Not like this!

No. No, no, NO.But it’s too late to stop what’s happening. Fastu leaps from the opening with the second bucket in his hand. Thornbush shoves me sideways against a crate, his dagger flashing in his hands as he passes me. Fastu doesn’t stand a chance. He’ll die, here, now, in front of me.

I yank up my skirts and grab my bone knife from its sheath, stumbling forward as Thornbush reaches Fastu. He seizes the water bucket and tears it from the boy’s grip. Fastu shouts—fool boy!—and staggers backward, nearly stepping on Bull, who is still wiping filth from his eyes and trying not to retch.

fool boy!My hand convulses around the hilt of my knife. If I kill a sailor, I won’t make it off this ship alive. There’s no way we’ll make it out of the hold right now, not with the boy shouting and all the noise that came before that. But Fastu chose this when I told him not to—

choseThornbush lifts his dagger, his gaze trained on the boy. “You shouldn’t have done that, little friend.”

I can’t stand by and watch Fastu be killed.

He tries to twist away at the same time that Bull grabs him by the arm and yanks him back. I throw myself forward, reaching out with my free hand to shove Thornbush’s shoulder, and pain explodes through my hand and up my arm.

Thornbush stumbles as I ram into him, a scream caught between my teeth. My knife slides into the fabric of his tunic, slicing a thin line of red down his back as I fall.

He twists around and kicks me square in the chest, sending me thudding against a wall of crates. I lie there, my breath frozen in my lungs and my vision edged in black as he scoops up my knife from the floor. There are other men in the hold now, and Bull has a dagger pressed against Fastu’s ribs.

At the door to the cell, a girl crouches, frozen, staring out at us. Thornbush slams the door in her face.

My lungs start working again as he turns, my chest hurting with each inhale. Thornbush sheathes his dagger and grabs me, wrenching me up. I barely manage to keep my feet under me as he marches me back toward the ladder in silence.

The captain is waiting for us by the time we reach the deck, one of the sailors having gone ahead to alert him. He stands silently before the hatch, his face grim, listening as Thornbush explains Fastu’s attempted escape and my stumbling support of him. A good dozen sailors have gathered at Morrel’s back.

“How,” Morrel asks softly, looking at me, “is it possible that we have had trouble from you already?”

I keep quiet. This wasn’t my plan. I wasn’t going to do anything now—and remembering Morrel’s threats from not even a quarter hour ago, I don’t want to take the blame. But Fastu’s just a child. I can’t let him be punished if there’s some way I can protect him.

“She had a knife.” Thornbush holds up my bone knife. “The boy came out of the room throwing buckets, and she cut me in the back with this.”

Morrel’s brows rise. He steps forward and takes it, turning the blade one way and then the other in the moonlight. In my eyes, the bright ivory blade is intricately carved, the handle inset with onyx and mother of pearl. To him, it will look like nothing more than a chipped kitchen knife. Still somewhat meditatively, he takes a step closer and whips it across my cheek, jerking my face to the side. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying the pain won’t come.

It doesn’t. I sigh in relief. It’s nothing more than the pain a twig snapping against my cheek would bring, enough to make my eyes water and set my teeth on edge, but my skin is still whole.

I open my eyes to Morrel’s furious gaze. He clucks his tongue in disgust and tries the blade on the pad of his thumb.

It cuts him. Deeply.

He swears, dropping the knife to the deck and grabbing a kerchief from his pocket to press against the thumb. The rest of the sailors have gone still, staring. Even Fastu, who has been jerking against Bull and trying to wrest himself free, pauses in his struggles to stare first at Morrel and then at me.

“Explain that knife,” Morrel says, eyeing it warily.

“I can’t.” After all, I don’t truly know how it works, nor do I want Morrel to think he can force me into making a gift of it to him, which he might if he knows it’s Fae-made. “It’s mine; it won’t cut me. That’s all.”

His jaw hardens. “You’re no mage.”

There’s no point in lying. He’ll only put me to the test if I do. “No,” I agree, my voice slightly uneven.

“You thought you could attack my men, and because of that necklace of yours, I’d keep you?”

I shake my head, not trusting my voice at all.

“Good. At least you’re not stupid. Though I don’t think you’re going to need this where you’re going.”

He catches the hawk pendant in his hand and lifts it over my head, yanking at the chain when it catches on my braids. Not too hard, though—it’s finely wrought gold, worth more whole than snapped.

It comes loose, and he pockets the pendant before turning his gaze to Fastu. “And you, did you really think a pair of buckets would win you your freedom?”

Fastu raises a trembling chin. “You won’t make a slave of me,” he says, as if his courage could save him.

“Don’t intend to,” Morrel says with a lightness that belies the violence in his eyes. “We keep our cargo undamaged, see? Unless it causes trouble. Then we’ve leave to dispose of it.” He gestures to a pair of sailors. “Bring up the other ones. You, fetch a pair of sandbags and some rope.”

My breath shudders in my chest. He’s going to kill us. I’ve known it since the moment that fool boy came flying out of our cell, but hearing Morrel’s words now takes it from abstract to immediate. I try to pull free at the same time that Fastu lets loose a yell and twists around, stomping on Bull’s foot.

He gets no farther than I, one of my braids caught by Thornbush’s hand, and a dagger shoved up against my throat. I go still, aware that I’ll die now or in five minutes, and somehow, though it makes no difference, I want those five minutes. Fastu, barely visible from the corner of my eye, remains pinned against the bulk of Bull, an equally sharp blade nestled against his throat.

Above us, the great white owl hoots again, that same deep, rumbling sound, and more than half the sailors make warding gestures—as if God would be on their side. I let my eyes slide shut for a moment, breathe in the cool night air, and send up my own prayer.

I do not want to take the secrets I carry to the grave with me. The possibility that I have failed, that my truths will die with me, leaves me light-headed and numb. I should have told the children when I had a chance—told them everything I knew, so if even one of us survived, the story could be carried back to Alyrra. But the children would have to convince a Speaker of the truth of my story before receiving the Blessing to protect against the Darkness; they wouldn’t remember me or any detail of what I told them after. It seemed unlikely any Speaker would believe them, instead chalking up their words to nightmares of their own making. But if one did, and sent word to the palace, such a message would no doubt be intercepted by Garrin. The Speaker would be silenced, and possibly the children targeted as well, and I would still be held prisoner.

I should have tried anyway.

I open my eyes, my gaze falling to my knife; it lies only two paces away on the deck, but it may as well be back in Tarinon. The pendant in Morrel’s pocket can’t save me, nor will the orders Garrin gave. My sash, the embroidery imbued with protections by my sister Niya, can only protect against magical attacks, not executions. I have nothing. So, when Morrel looks toward me as the children haul themselves up through the hatch, I part my lips to beg.

He raises his brow, and there’s a dark amusement in his eyes. My tongue falters, as if suddenly knotted around the words.

“Want to say something, birdie? Beg my mercy, perhaps? This is mercy. I could do a hundred things with your body before I throw it overboard. I’ve knives and men aplenty. Tell me, what would you like?”

isNo hope. I know it, and he can see it in my face, for his amusement grows till it touches his lips. I say the only thing I can think of, my gaze falling back to my knife. “The blade is enchanted. It won’t cut me. But it will turn against any who harm me.”

He scoffs. “Will it? Even from the bottom of a river?”

He’ll sink it with me; at least I have that much. A sailor binds my wrists, then loops a length of rope around my ankles and tightens it fast, the other end tied to a sandbag. But if the knife goes down with me, perhaps I can free us. It is a paltry hope at best.

To my side, Fastu is crying now, little gasping sobs as he is bound to his death. We are dragged to the rail, Morrel’s voice ringing in my ears as he declares our crimes to the watching children. My eyes catch on the younger girl—I don’t know her by sight, don’t know any of them to look at, but she is about seven or eight, and she trembles as she stares back at me, brown eyes wide and shadowed, her cheeks hollowed and her hair tangled about her face. I remember her hand in mine, her panicked pleas.

I promised Cari I would come back, that I wouldn’t leave her alone.

I promised.

“No one escapes alive,” Morrel says, and nods toward Fastu and me.

A heartbeat later we are thrown overboard.