Alyce was starkly aware of the tension. She spoke up anyway. "He sounded sad."
"He's not sad," Peter said. "He doesn't get sad."
"He does too."
"Not like us, he doesn't."
"You're just angry and saying stuff."
Peter finally glanced at her. She recognized the look in his eyes; frustration and rage, submerged, pent up. He wanted to help, but he didn't know how. He never knew how. "Can you get a read on him?" he asked, voice as buried as the rest of him. "Is he nervous about the nest?"
She scowled. "He'd be crazy not to be nervous."
"Are you?"
Alyce switched the transceiver off. The skyglass hummed and gradually settled. "You need to stop thinking so hard," she said. "It's not doing you any favors."
"I have to. I have to think twice as hard as he does to get his kind of results."
"You're not stupid, Peter. Nobody thinks you're stupid." To tease him, she added, "Stupid."
But Peter was quiet, eyes low on the warehouse floor. A breeze moved the lantern above them; it creaked in the silence, slung from a crossbeam. He subsided. "Tanis has a chart of the coast that she wants me to see," he said. "There's a headland a few eastward leagues of Wulfstead. She thinks it'll be safe to moor there while we ready our men."
"Smart."
"Want to come?"
"No thanks." The creaking sound of the lantern was unsettling. It was too reminiscent of the vision that Ethos had shared with her— the darkness, and the wind and the dead. How she'd clung to the wall, nails raking stone. "I'm gonna go take a nap."
Peter felt her forehead with the back of his hand. "Headache?"
"Yeah," Alyce said, blinking away the memory. "I'll be fine. Don't worry."
"I'll come by to check on you when I'm done with Tanis." He stared at her for a moment, just long enough to annoy her. He must've seen the tell of a glare forming behind her eyes, because he nodded and gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Okay," he said. "Let's go."
She didn't respond, but she took his hand when he offered it. As they passed beneath the creaking lantern, she asked, "Are you gonna do what he said?"
"Which part?"
"The part about the nebule."
"Oh." He opened the warehouse door for her, wincing when the cold air hit him. "Aye, I'll do it," he replied. "But not because he told me to. I ought to know what it can do."
They spilled onto the busy seafront, met by its characteristic sounds. Wagons of provisions were being loaded and led, horses snorting, men hollering. The surf was a pleasant background percussion, lapping against the bellies of ships. All in all, morale seemed high.
But even with everyone so eager to be off, Alyce's enthusiasm remained in short supply. She let Peter lead her through the throng of barrel-chested seamen, thoughts grim, and somehow mustered a ghost of a smile when they finally stopped and parted ways. His frustration and rage, submerged, pent up, had all but been yanked back into its home, wherever it lived when she couldn't see it. She watched him melt back into the crowd, one blond Flintman among a great many.
Beside her, Ethos said, "Delay it as long as you can."
The sounds of the seafront faded. Alyce turned. Ethos was admiring the Retaliant, hands in his pockets. "He'll hate us," she said. "He's prideful."
Ethos glanced down at her. The muted daylight caught in his eyes. "Yeah," he said, and he smiled a little to soften the blow. "I'm sorry for dragging you into it. It's for a good cause."
She scowled, charmed. "Stupid," she retorted. "You always say that."
"We'll save a lot of people, peanut. Peter included."
"But what about the people of Wulfstead?"
His smile thinned. "I didn't want to be right," he admitted. "But Kacha knew the plan, and Alma is more consistent than I'd like. Best to just let the rest fall into place."
"Fall into place," she echoed, put out. "He's gonna give me a beating for sure."
Ethos crouched in front of her, elbows on his knees. His hands clasped; subtle contrition. "You're not alone, Alyce," he said, quietly. "We're connected. You're under my protection."
She'd forgotten how short his hair was now. "What does that mean?"
He studied her face, no longer smiling. Nobody else ever looked at her like that. "You're the only one I can do this with," he said. "You know that, right?"
Again, she scowled. "Because I'm terran?"
"That's right," he replied. "Very good. That's why we're connected like this. But you're under my protection because of who you are, not what you are. Understand?"
A sudden presence, above them, invited her eyes. It was a familiar grim-faced man, observing her from the Retaliant's bulwark. He didn't call out, but his gesture for her to join him, a mere crook of a finger, was unmistakable.
Aloud, she asked, "Who's that?"
But Ethos was gone. The sounds of the seafront returned.
Alyce sighed, resigned to his brevity, and eyed the man above once more before approaching the ramp to the main. There were men streaming up and down the slippery planks, so she waited patiently until an opening presented itself. The wood rattled beneath her feet. The guardrails burned her palms.
Topside, she couldn't keep up with the active crew. She bumped into someone, apologized when they spat a foul word, and then promptly tripped on the bolt of a hatch. The deck was still wet from the light morning snow.
"What are you doing here, wharf rat?"
It was a sour-looking seaman with dull, narrow eyes. She'd never seen him before. He looked like he'd survived a fire at some point, hairless and pocked and bitter about it.
Before she could reply, the man from the bulwark materialized beside him. He had an everyday sort of handsomeness to him, but the eerie indifference in his bearing robbed him of anything warm or pleasant. "Settle down, Gerny," he advised. "This is our new navigator."
"This whelp?" Gerny sized her up. "What is she, five? Where's Wilson?"
"Wilson's running support on the Ravager," the other explained, and his lifeless gaze calmly sank back to Alyce. "Apparently he's not needed here."
But she was too busy glaring daggers at Gerny. "I'm not five."
Gerny bent at the waist and sneered, "Want to know what I do to wharf rats?"
"Gerny." The second man again, his tone providing no room for argument. He waited for Gerny to straighten and glance. "See to the sludge tank," he said. "Now."
"Sludge tank duty's for swabs and skangers."
"Aye, so it suits you."
A retort seemed unwise, so Gerny stalked off. His shoulders were stiff as he rejoined the toiling crewmen around them.
The dead-eyed man looked at Alyce. "Stand."
She did so, fearing repercussion. "Sorry, but who are you?"
"Arngeir," he answered. "Quartermaster. Tanis reassigned me from the Dreadnaught."
"I've heard of you. Tanis must think we're inexperienced."
"She's right to." Arngeir took the shoulder of a passing seaman. He indicated something beyond her periphery and said, "Help Wyatt secure that skiff."
Alyce watched the seaman run off to follow direction. "Does Peter know about this?" she asked, turning back. "I think he's already picked a quartermaster."
"This way." Arngeir led her aft, indifferent. "Don't fall behind."
She gave chase at his heels, weaving in between deckhands. "Hey, slow down."
His voice was hard to hear. "How much time have you spent aboard?"
"Some," she replied, stumbling. "Sky runs, mostly."
"Were you able to navigate effectively?"
"It's easier when I'm topside."
He glanced back at her. "Easier?"
"Yeah, easier. The cabins throw me off."
For the first time, he smiled. "You'll have to explain how it works to me."
The helm appeared when they reached the quarterdeck, weathered and dark. Another unfamiliar man was leaning against it, arm hooked on one of the spokes as he languidly drank from a wineskin. He was fair-haired and small, almost boyish. He quickly stood at attention as they approached.
Arngeir slowed to introduce them. "Adam, meet Alyce," he said. "Alyce, this is my helmsman, Adam Albright. You'll be working together."
Adam politely removed his winter cap. "It's an honor," he greeted, with a dip of his head. "They say you can tell when a tree falls in Dayfield."
In spite of herself, she said, "There are no trees in Dayfield."
He laughed and dipped his head twice more. "An honor," he repeated. "Truly."
Arngeir steered her toward the great cabin, directly aft. "This way."
"Wait," Adam blurted, and he cringed when those angry eyes speared back at him. He fumbled to put his hat back on, blinding himself with strawberry hair.
Arngeir stared at him. "Who's in there?"
Sourly, it was Alyce who now noticed, "Una."
"The queen? I thought she was heading the Windstar."
The cabin door opened. Una had redressed for the climate, some borrowed mix of furs and weaves, down to the sheen of her oilskin boots. Her thinning hair was loosely tied to one side, cleverly hiding a bare patch of scalp. "Alyce," she beckoned. "Come in and tell me how it went."
Alyce willfully held her ground. "It went fine. He's fine."
"I'd still like to talk if that's okay." Una smiled a little. "Come inside."
She returned to the cabin. Alyce glowered at the entrance for a moment, and then sullenly blew at the hair in her eyes. "Fine," she huffed, marching in. "Just don't try to touch me again."
Una seated herself at the table. She didn't speak until Alyce had firmly closed the door. "You can't disrespect me in front of the crew like that," she said, but she didn't sound angry. "I represent the future of Karna. Deference is in order, even if you don't mean it."
The stench of her had filled the room. Alyce stood with her back to the door, privately gagged by the foulness of it. A mirror was smashed on the far wall. "Right," she said. "Deference."
The oil lamp at Una's elbow dimmed. She fed the wick and it took, flaring warmly. "So tell me," she said, ghastly eyes alight with the flame. "How did he sound?"
"He sounded annoyed. You would, too, being treated like a child."
"When a party divides, it's essential to communicate."
"That's just your excuse to keep tabs on him."
"I sleep better knowing he's well."
Alyce crinkled her nose. "You don't sleep."
To that, of course, Una had no rebuttal. "I'm sick, Alyce."
"Yeah, I know. You died. You bring it up every time you want sympathy."
"That's not what this is." Una's expression didn't change, nor was there anything in her bearing to indicate rage, but Alyce could feel her power constrict somewhere deep in that rotted-out core. "Ethos is out there looking for a cure," she explained. "If I seem a bit overbearing, that's why. I don't mean to pester you like I do."
"And if he can't find a cure?"
"He will. He promised me he would."
"You wouldn't be fit to rule. You'd have to step down."
Una's eyes fell to the table. "It's a rare condition. It might not come to that."
"Stupid. You'd never step down anyway. Not after all the work you put in to getting this far."
Una's sickly gaze jumped back to her, piercing. "That's enough, Alyce. Deference."
Alyce glared at her. "You've always wanted everything, Una," she said. "Even though you had so much. It says a lot that even alive you had the same vile putrefied heart."
Una seemed surprised, maybe even hurt. But then she smiled— just a little. She'd seen something in Alyce's face. "Envy," it was. "You envy me."
Alyce opened the door for her: an invitation to leave. "Wrong tree."
Una's smile faded, and after a long, serious moment, she stood up and circled the table. But rather than say a parting word, she leaned around Alyce and pushed the door shut. Up close, her smell was unbearable. "I'd envy me, too," she said, quietly. "I'm sure it hurts to be what you are."
Alyce bristled. She wouldn't be bullied. She shoved Una away from her, hard. "It hurts a whole lot less than it will to turn into some hairless freak of nature," she snarled. "It's pathetic how you cling to a cure. Ethos isn't out there for you— he's out there for himself. For Syan."
Una searched her eyes, uncertain. "Syan Battlefrost?"
"She's alive, stupid. She's in Roheim."
"But did he say he was going out there for her?"
"He didn't have to," Alyce spat. "He's more Eadric than he lets on."
Alyce couldn't remember the last time she'd shared a meal with Una. All of the highborn's lean, glowing muscle had melted away from her bones longsince. Yet in a very sudden, startling display, she raised Alyce one-armed off of the floor, rancid nails balled up in her shirt. And while Alyce, admittedly, didn't weigh much, she knew an impossible feat when she saw one. Una wasn't even straining.
"I can't eat," Una whispered, confirming suspicions. "I can't sleep. Everything itches and I can't concentrate. If he doesn't fix me, I'll tear out his lungs."
Alyce clung to her hand, feet dangling. "It's too late for you," she grimaced. "Kacha knew it. She said you were better off dead than like this."
"I am your queen, Alyce."
"Queen! You're hardly even human."
"He promised me. He owes me. He killed my father."
Fed up, Alyce growled, "He killed your father because you compelled him to."
Una's stillness was statuesque. Her grip tightened. "Peter said it wouldn't work on him."
"Well, it did. You're as much a king killer as he is. Worse! Far as I can tell, we can trace all of our problems back to the stunts you pulled when you were alive."
Una's eyes were moving back and forth between hers. Her voice had yet to rise or shake. "That's bullshit," she said, evenly. "It's your beloved Eadric who's landed us here. I would be ruling Karna by now if he hadn't pushed Ethos over the edge."
"That turd bucket isn't beloved."
"Putting ideas in his head— "
Alyce kicked and shouted, "Let go!"
"A Battlefrost in Oldden, of all foolish things."
The door opened, silencing them. Peter ducked in like he'd expected a brawl, cobalt eyes assessing the space. He threw the latch behind him. "Break it up," he instructed. "We can't be fighting amongst ourselves for all the world and the next to hear."
Una just scoffed. " 'Do as I say, not as I do?' "
"Quiet." Peter folded his arms and said, "Drop her."
"You said I couldn't compel him. You said I wasn't strong enough."
He frowned and glanced at Alyce. "You told her?"
Alyce scowled. "Not on purpose."
He held her eyes for a long, thoughtful moment. But then he sighed, and when he finally spoke, it was to Una. "Drop her," he repeated. "I'll explain."
Deliberately, Una did just that. Alyce landed on all fours. "Eadric was right," the princess sneered, voice taking on a darker edge. "You've all been in on it, keeping me down— making me think that I'm weak when I'm not."
"It didn't work the way you wanted it to."
"It worked perfectly. He cleared a path to the throne."
"Aye, but that's not what he was there for. You already know that."
Una returned his glare. From below, it looked like a standoff. "You talked to him about it?"
He gave a single, wordless nod. "You'd planned to use him to usurp rule," he answered. "You told him it was to save you from being married off to whichever oaf next inherited Flint."
The irony wasn't lost on Una. A grin smoothly spread. "What, really?"
"Really," he said, unsmiling. "Funny, how things turn out."
Her amusement dwindled in light of his austerity. "So it didn't quite work the way I'd have liked," she understood. "But something clearly registered if it's what killed my father."
"We decided that it would be better if you didn't know you were the cause of it all."
"Let's not act as if you were protecting my feelings."
"Aye, Ethos decided it. Happy?"
"Hardly." Una's eyes slid back to Alyce. Briefly, she did nothing but stare. "I know he lies to us," she confessed, and slowly she returned to the table. "I know he does. I'm not an idiot."
Sidelong, Peter sent Alyce a reproving look; he'd probably guessed at what had been said. "He went out there to follow a lead," he muttered. "You know that."
He was skirting the truth, and Una might have known that if she'd gotten a glimpse of his face. But she was gathering all her tabletop papers, back turned, unwitting. "I have no choice but to trust him," she murmured. "I can't go back. There's nothing."
That caught Peter's attention. He glanced at her with only his eyes. "Nothing?"
In her quiet haste, a pile of papers ended up on the floor. She softly cursed and stooped to retrieve them, shuffling after the farthermost ones. Alyce was low enough on the ground to see her profile, the tension in the curve of her jaw, pulsing as if she were grinding her teeth.
Peter met her back at the table, head dipped to catch her expression. He said her name. He stopped her restless hands and urged, "Talk to me."
She sighed at him. "You don't even like me, Peter."
"So I'm not a complete asshole. Lose the attitude and tell me what's wrong." To her silence, Peter fully turned her to face him. "Una," he pressed. "There's no one else who will listen."
For the first time in a long time, Una looked truly distraught. She shook Peter off and threw up her hands. "I died," she said. "Did you ever stop to think I'd remember?"
"Aye, I figured you'd remember it eventually."
"I mean being dead, Peter." Una stepped back and hugged herself tightly. "There's nothing there," she said. "No next world. No afterlife. There's just nothing."
He frowned. "I don't believe that."
"Fine, Peter. There's falling. And you think it'll stop, but it doesn't."
Peter approached, intent on her eyes. "Listen, princess, I don't know where you ended up, or if maybe what you went through had something to do with Alma, but there are other worlds out there," he said, sounding sure of it. "Don't let something like fear tie you down. You'll be okay."
Una's eyebrows drew together. "What makes you so sure?"
"Because I've had a firsthand account like. Sort of."
"A firsthand account? Since when did you do a jaunt in the next world?"
"You knew about it before you died." Peter shrugged. He looked uncomfortable. "It's how I met Shima," he explained. "Could be that all gods have one of some sort— a bit of creation they've brewed by existing. It was beautiful, really. In a scary way."
"You're talking about Ethos."
"Who else?"
"Ethos isn't a god, Peter."
"I've given it a lot of thought, and while I doubt I'll ever really know how it works, I know what I saw." With a sigh, he made a gesture as if to indicate two separate items. "It might not be the next world exactly, but it is a world. And it can't be the only one out there. That's all."
Alyce sat at the table; the movement invited their eyes. "Alma doesn't think anything dies," she grunted. "Like everything dead still exists somewhere. She said as much in the tombs."
Peter studied her. "You've never talked about that night before."
"Stupid. Don't make a big deal out of it."
"What was the context?"
"Context?"
"Aye, how it came up."
Cornered, confused, eyes bright— "It doesn't matter how it came up," Alyce muttered. "Alma's always talking in riddles. She's not normal."
"Maybe it just seems that way because we don't understand her."
"You're wrong." Alyce tried to convey the gravity of the situation with her eyes. "You didn't see how she was with them, Peter," she said. "She's a monster."
Peter subtly smirked. "Let's not forget who else you call monster."
"Yeah, but he's our monster. He doesn't count. Alma will seriously eat you alive."
Little by little, his crooked smirk faded. "How bad was it really?"
She shouldn't have said anything. Being front row to the whole experience had been awful enough without the added torture of reliving it. "It was bad," she admitted. "But if Ethos is good about anything, it's moving on to the next problem. You should do the same."
He was quiet, and justly so. His expression read like a scolded child. "You're right," he said. "And I will. Please just tell me if there's anything I should know about."
Please. It wasn't a word that Peter used often. And he was right to worry; the events of that day as described by Ethos had unfolded with all the wild fury of buckwheat, but in truth there had been no time to breathe, no time to think or to stop or speak sense. There had only been fear. Blind fear. Spikes of pure and perfect terror, turning them into animals.
Beside her, Ethos said, "Don't."
Alyce glanced, sidelong. He wasn't there.
Peter asked, "Alyce?"
"No," she replied. "There's nothing."