The fifth day asail was bright, beautiful despite the chill, and the clouds were a formless sea upon which the Retaliant glided unencumbered. Peter was topside, gazing down at the world below, at the snowcapped peaks of the northern mountains, the rivers between and the deep ravines, and then ahead, to where he knew the Dire Sea resided.
There were tono flying alongside the ship; they'd occasionally press ahead and disappear into the skybroth, after which they'd double back to rejoin their numbers, reporting in. Many were eager to reach the sea, to have a place to land and stretch and have a moment of privacy. There were entire shifts of the Battlefrost crew who hadn't rested up in days, their eyes worse off than the living dead as they stoked the fires that kept them afloat. They were dark-minded, weary, and desperate for home.
Someone whistled— aloft, the barrelman: the sea was in sight. Peter descended from the busy main and entered the crowded level below; many of their wounded had taken shelter there since their rushed departure from Harken. Largely tono, they were nestled in between the cannons, fashioning arrows and tools with materials from the forest. The floor was strewn with their shaved rinds of wood.
The night shift had claimed the heaving galley. Some were eating or slumped over tables, but most were engaged in games of some sort. Peter took a ladder down to the orlop and into the hold directly beneath it. The heat was staggering. The stench, more so.
Anouk was there, pulling her weight. She'd spent the first few days stalking topside, fixing lines and braces. Persuading her to move forward with the plan hadn't been an easy task, not with Ethos missing in action, but she'd buckled despite her icy disposition, regardless of her lack of reward. She'd spat on the ground and called him a dogfish and quietly cursed and gone to her cabin.
"Look alive!" she snarled, hauling in a fresh case of coal. "On my deathless soul is this ship going down. Scoresby— empty that ashpan! Look alive, I said!" She dumped the case by the portside furnace and caught sight of Peter, who waved her over. She wiped her forehead as she approached, glancing down rows of laboring handlers. At one, she barked, "Watch that regulator!"
Peter smirked when she was in earshot. "Enjoying yourself?"
"Aye, news?"
"We're coming up on the Dire."
She quickly snatched her coat from the wall behind him. She threw it on, turned to her crew, and smilingly cupped one hand by her mouth. "We're in for it, brothers!" she shouted. "Refill the tanks and keep her steady! Them waters come up fast!"
The dayshift roared in response. Fists pumped air. Peter laughed.
Anouk guided him away. "Let's mosey," she muttered. "Is Orrin awake?"
"Samuel saw him sleeping in the wardroom," he replied, tripping. "Want me to get him?"
"Aye, I'll need him if the valves don't hold." She scaled the ladder and waited for him on the level above. "We're landing into howling territory," she said, when he joined her. "You need to be on your toes, alert like. Have you got any nerve for cutting things open?"
It was hard to see her eyes; there was light coming in from the starboard windows, outlining stores of grains and meats, water, ale, ropes and canvas. "I've got enough," Peter said, and he glanced just once at his blistered hands. "I'll defend myself if something's after me."
" 'Enough,' " she echoed, scoffing. "Some Battlefrost you turned out to be."
He spared her a mild sneer. "Shame, that," he said. "I'll have to practice my piss artistry."
"Piss artistry! It's piss artists what saved you and yours from Hans Redbeard."
"Aye, rub it in any time you like."
Anouk sniggered, but refrained from further bantering. Instead, she indicated the orlop. "Weapons are in back," she told him. "The last thing I need is a pack of defenseless wounded birdfolk while we're footling in the Dire, so arm your people while we're landed."
Peter nodded. "They'll appreciate that."
"Any sign of a tail?"
"None."
"How's the princess?"
With a sigh, he said, "I'll check on her."
"Aye, check well. She spooks the giblets out of my men." She wasn't laughing about it. She stared at him for a moment, still cast in shadow. The sweat on her skin caught the muted daylight when she glanced away. Her voice went low. "You're sure seabird's alive?"
Ethos, gone now for nearly a week. "I'm sure."
"And you'll tell me if that changes."
"I'll tell you." He didn't even want to think about it. The wardroom and the private cabins were all the way to the rear, so he brushed past her and said, "I'll send up Orrin."
She didn't answer, and Peter couldn't bring himself to look back. He made his way up through the stern's narrow passageways and caught himself when the ship lurched forward. He could hear mess deck silverware clattering to the floor, plates with it, possibly men, and he dug his heels in until the craft steadied. The wardroom door yawned ajar, throwing light. Several people laughed within.
Peter stuck his head in. Orrin Stillwater was there, hairless and brawny, staggering as he righted his toppled chair. "Oi, Orrin," Peter said, from the entrance. "You're needed topside."
The others with him —Edlund Phipps and an older woman, Larys— they laughed at him despite being drenched in the drinks they'd clearly just spilled on themselves. "Buzzards, the lot of you," Orrin said, turning about. "Next I'm on the barse of a bet I'd damn well better get some winnings."
"Oh, aye, he wants winnings now," Edlund snickered. "Selfish, that."
Larys wiggled her fingers and leered, "Smell yer ma, Oro."
Peter left them to it, pausing after he'd closed the door to recall what his priorities were. He came back to Una; he always did. He followed his feet to her compartment and knocked, just once. He entered when he was met by silence.
She was sitting in a tired hammock, expression faintly drawn in a way that hinted at an impending nap. Beside her, a gleaming porthole flooded the room with warm sunlight, highlighting the auburn hues in her hair. A bottle of wine hung loosely from her dominant hand.
Her eyes moved to him. "I was wondering where you were."
He asked, "Did you get any rest last night?"
"You'd know if you'd stayed."
Peter righted a stool and sat. He took the bottle, ignoring her quiet sound of protest. He held it up to the light while she reached. "I thought you were doing better."
"I was," she sullenly replied, sinking back. "I mean— I am. I don't know."
He eyed her hands before she could hide them. "What can I do to get you out of this cabin?"
"You can change course." Una's expression soured. "We should be flying over Oldden right now," she said, not for the first time. "He's going to think we abandoned him."
"He told me to stick to the plan, princess."
"You were supposed to protect him." She glared for a moment, but then looked away. She might have been too tired to fight. "I'm just afraid," she confessed. "He may not feel things the way we do, but that doesn't mean he can't get hurt."
Peter guessed, "You still love him."
Her gaze jumped back to him. "I'm sorry, I— "
"It's okay," he said, and he patted her knee to calm her. "Love isn't conditional, nor is it something that we can control. I can certainly understand it. There's a reason why he's my friend."
"I'm too obvious about it," she knew, regardless. "I'll try to be better."
Peter watched her, thoughts dark. "As much as I hate to say it, the three of us will never have an entirely healthy relationship," he told her. "That's life. But our choices affect people now, so we have an obligation to make it work. And that's exactly what we're going to do." He stared down at the bottle in his hands. "Wulfstead will be ours within a fortnight," he continued. "If Eadric still has him by then, I'll take measures to step in and get him out of there. But not a moment sooner."
Una's silence made him glance. She was smiling at him, gently, like she used to. Her eyes shone with fondness. "I'm so proud of you, Peter."
He scowled and began to rise. "Don't make fun of me."
She pushed him back with her foot. "You're dreadfully stuffy sometimes," she remarked. "You're short-tempered, overbearing, sentimental, and foul at lying. You ignored me for two whole days when I snapped the tip of your favorite knife."
"I'm still angry about that."
"But you're also kindhearted, charming, and gentler than first impressions suggest." Her smile was fading, as if she were just realizing this for herself. "You're good at your core," she went on. "You stand tall when the occasion calls for it— like now, with Ethos gone."
Peter pushed her foot away. "Aye, I'm keeping his spot warm."
She leaned forward, making the hammock sway. "How many people are on this ship, Peter?"
"Including us?"
"Including us."
"Eighty-four. Why?"
"How many are tono survivors?"
"Fifty-five, if we're including Kacha."
"How many are Battlefrosts?"
"Twenty-seven."
"Gifted?"
"Five."
"Children?"
"Seven."
"Elderly?"
"Three."
"And how many can we trust?"
He stared at her hard and answered, "Two."
Una sat back. The hammock creaked. She studied him there for a few long moments. "I'm sorry if I underappreciate you," she murmured. "I sometimes forget how capable you are."
"It's easy to forget when all you do is talk about Ethos."
"I'm not the only one guilty of that."
Peter looked back at the bottle; he turned it in his hands and lightly set it down on the ground. "I used to wish I'd never met him," he said. "He was in the way, keeping me from home. He never listened to me. I hated it." The ship thundered beneath his feet. "And then Eadric had to come along and make him seem special somehow. I was jealous, I think. Resentful. I wanted to be important like that."
"You are." Una's eyes were sincere. She repeated, "You are."
She was so unfairly beautiful. "I can't compete with him," he said. "I know that. But it's gotten to the point that I don't even care anymore. It's thanks to him that I'm here today."
She reached out and squeezed his shoulder. She forced a small smile. "Do you ever hate me like that?" she asked. "Do you ever resent me?"
But Peter didn't smile with her. "You made me think we were in love, Una," he said. "I invented a future with you, kids, even, their names and suchlike. I was the happiest I'd been." He caught her hand as it fell away. "I don't hate you for it."
Hopeful, surprised, she asked, "No?"
"You freed me." Peter kissed her dry, cracked knuckles. "I'd spent my life hung up on ideals, and you were my ideal woman," he said. "So when I realized what a monster you were, it all just suddenly clicked." He smirked. "The universe doesn't give a shit about true love or happy endings. Bad things happen to perfectly good people. Why should I suffer?"
Her expression had crumbled. "You're frightening me."
She was trying to take her hand back; he let her. Clouds swallowed the gleaming porthole. "If I were to hate you for anything, it'd be for what I put Ethos through," he said. "But even then, you were just the one who instigated it. The rest was my fault." Peter returned to his feet. "Instead of hating or resenting you, I blame you for making me the way that I am. I hold you responsible. Thanks to that, I can talk to you like this and have a clear conscience. I can even stomach the idea of spending the rest of my life with you. But don't make the mistake of thinking that I've forgotten about what you did."
"That was before I died," she whispered. "I'm a different person now."
"I've said my piece." Peter gestured for her to rise. "Come on, now, get up," he said. "The fresh air will do you good, princess. You're starting to unsettle the crew."
She just stared up at him. "Stay here with me."
"Nobody thinks you smell bad."
"Kacha and Alyce do."
Peter glowered. "Alyce is gone."
Sensing a delicate topic, Una waved him away. "Just go."
So he did, but he paused at the door when sunlight flooded back into the cabin. The gray clouds beyond the porthole had passed, and Una was gazing out at the world, throat curved, hair spilling over her slender shoulder. Refined, as always. He thought of how they'd met in the midlands, of how she'd boldly stood above them as if all the world belonged to her.
Baroona was waiting outside in the passage. He was leaning back against the wall, quiet until the door had closed. "I could tell from as far as the Backbone," he greeted. "He's in Oldden."
Peter quickly steered him toward the companionway. "The Keep?"
With a nod, Baroona answered, "The lower levels."
"Did you get a read on his state of mind?"
"I'm not clairvoyant, Peter."
Peter stopped him at the stairs. "Be serious."
Annoyed, Baroona heaved a sigh. "He's restless," he said. "Nerves, maybe. Though it's anyone's guess if there's actually a difference between this and his usual disposition."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Baroona shrugged. "It means he's always like this."
Peter glanced up the sunny companionway. Men were running this way and that, following orders to crowd the sheets. "Okay, listen," he said to Baroona, low-voiced. "The more people who know about this, the less we're likely to do it right. Eadric has eyes everywhere."
"A small party, then," Baroona agreed. "How many?"
"Four. Any more and we'll botch it."
"When do we depart?"
"Tomorrow, after the Battlefrosts join our cause." Afar, Anouk shouted. Peter heard somebody say his name. But Baroona was watching him, waiting, ready, and he was too invested in the discussion to bother with matters elsewhere. "Get him out of there," he instructed, firmly. "Whatever it takes. Set fire to the whole damn fort, if you have to. Just bring him back alive."
Baroona nodded again. "Does Kacha know?"
"Are you two talking?"
"On and off," he replied. "Does she know?"
"No." Peter started up the companionway and stopped, one foot on the bottom step. "Redistribute the weapons," he said. "They're in the orlop— aft, I think. Move stuff around."
With another nod, Baroona returned to the bowels of the ship. Peter went topside. The main deck was alive with activity, roaring with voices and wind and light. He sidestepped a myriad of midshipmen, ducking out from the busy main to join the helmsman on the quarterdeck.
"Clap on all the sail we have!" Anouk bellowed, somewhere in the thick of it. "Lively!"
Orrin was at the fore, catching a line from a man in the rigging. "Fall off, helmsman," he hollered down the line. "Oi, Ashbrook— fall off!"
Back at the helm and spitting curses, Ashbrook yanked hard at the pitch control, wincing when it threw steam in his eyes. The bow dipped precariously forward. Men cried out and clung to the shrouds, Peter included, albeit on the frosty quarterdeck rail. Anouk appeared and shoved Ashbrook away; with a swift kick to the unsecured lever, she stopped the steam and righted the bow.
Peter tried to help Ashbrook to his feet, but Anouk quickly tore them apart. She seized the front of the helmsman's shirt. "It only takes once to bury us, Clancy."
He nodded too much. "Sorry, Captain."
"Be better." She shoved him away. "Keep her steady."
He retrieved his fallen hat from the ground. "Roger, Captain," he said. "Right away."
Anouk's eyes slid to Peter next. "And you," she spat. "Flailing about like a clumsy seacalf. If your father were here he'd trim your ears."
Peter sneered at her. "It was an accident."
"Accidents get people killed." She pointed— up, at the masthead. "Make yourself useful and reeve off a new tackle for Angus," she said. "His hearing's shot and I don't have the patience."
He was about to retort, but something already had her off shouting at someone else. Ashbrook let out the breath he'd been holding. "I seized up," he said, white-knuckling his hat. "Curse all. She'll never let me leave port again."
"Aye, Anouk's a real piece of work."
Ashbrook glanced in surprise. "You don't like her?"
Peter blinked and asked, "You do?"
"Course I do. Lookit her." She and Orrin were struggling to free a snagged corner of foresail. She severed a line, clambered up to the lowest yard, and caught the flapping, unhitched canvas. She barked out orders as she tied it off, feet dangling, oafish. "She's the best of our fleet, especially with her mother gone," Ashbrook continued, and his voice was filled with quiet dedication. "She'd live on the dirty Dire if she could. A true Battlefrost like."
Peter sighed. "I'd forgotten about her mother."
"Went down fighting a swarm of howlings. Heard she took half of them with her."
"Where was she posted that had her up against an entire swarm?"
"Mount Savage," Ashbrook said. "Ronen and her crew had been clearing it out for years, mapping out the tunnels in hope of finding and destroying the nest."
Anouk shouted Peter's name. She was pointing aloft, glaring daggers.
Ashbrook chuckled. "Better reeve off that tackle for Angus," he said. "Anouk gets ignored at your own risk like. Took Lester's eyebrows one hair at a time."
"Aye, reeving off. Message received."
Peter set out from the helm, feeling tense. It was an all-too-familiar pressure, cradled there in the pit of his stomach and tightening into an offshoot of fear. It was the thought of the swarm, he instantly knew, and of where they were headed, right into the thick of it.