It took nine months from the sinking of The Gull for Ormo’s people to find the crates. They were close to where Syrina had last seen them, still caught in the loop currents, but it had been a harsh winter. Two of the five had been destroyed, and another two had leaked enough to ruin most of their contents. One had survived, beaten but intact. Ormo had kept Syrina busy in the meantime with irrelevant tasks. Busy enough to keep her from working on anything she cared about. Busy enough that she was sure that was what he intended.
It was spring by the time Ormo’s people had finished sifting through what was salvageable—two years since Syrina had first departed to Fom on Ka’id’s ship. It seemed more like twenty to her. Since Triglav, Syrina had been counting the days until she no longer needed
