There’s a violent unbalance in his cutthroat stare—a hollow darkness that’s gobbled up his irises, leaving nothing but frail silver halos keeping the black contained. He hasn’t shaved since she left, and his regular stubble has grown thick and dark, a wildness to match the untethered look in his eyes.
“According to the sprite, the, ah … the ship Laith boarded at Castle Noir took extensive damage.”
“What abouther?”
I watch a bead of blood slip down the length of his thumb from up under his sleeve and drip …
Drip …
Shit.
“Answer me, Baze.”
“Somebody had to carry her off the ship before it sank. That’s all I know.”
“Somebody...”
“Mm-hmm.” My gaze flicks down, up again. “You’re bleeding,” I mutter, and he wipes his hand on his pants without breaking eye contact. I gesture toward the cord caught around his neck, secured to the small bladder of Orlaith’s blood tucked close to his heart. “Perhaps you should have a sip.”
“You’re offering self-medication advice?” He looks me over. “Right now?”
“Shocking, I know.”
His stare holds for a few drawn beats before he grunts, gaze casting across the ocean.
We’ve been scanning the point for Cainon’s fleet for days—since we received confirmation he deployed a boastful number of ships down the west coast. Being constantly prepared for an uncertain attack, we’re wasting precious resources and getting restless in this horrid limbo.
Quoth Point is the only weakness along the western coast accessible by fleet. The only scrap of Ocruth that slopes into the ocean rather than chopped with a sheer, unscalable drop.
If an army were to attack from the sea, it’d be here—the small, craggy stretch of black sand littered with rusted arrowheads, teeth, and shards of bone. Testament to battles long past.
But I’m not concerned about an attack we’re well prepared to beat back, and I know that’s nothismain concern.
It’s her.
Over the past week, I’ve seen Rhordyn become progressively more abrasive, and I’ve become progressively more drunk.
Same problem, different coping mechanisms.
With a low growl, he spins and stalks toward the brush in long, determined strides. “Try to keep up without tripping over your feet.”
Rolling my eyes, I trail him through the trees, stepping over rocks and fallen logs until we converge with the camp’s silver glow.
He leads me between two rows of tents, a barrel of ale standing sentry at the last, topped with a number of brimming, frothless mugs. I snatch the fullest one as we pass, just tipping it to my lips when Rhordyn smacks it from my hand, painting the side of someone’s tent with a frothy smear.
“So wasteful,” I slur, flicking up my hood.
“You finally understand.”
“Do you have to walk so fast? I’m seeing doubles.”
Someone exits a tent with mussed up hair and bleary eyes, takes one look at our High Master, and loses all the color in his cheeks, bowing.
Rhordyn charges on without a pause in his step. “The next fleet of trade ships heading down the River Norse?”
“What about them?”
He grabs a full bladder of water off a table from the hydration tent pitched atop the well and continues, hooking it over his shoulder by the sling. “I need you to replace the traveling merchants with soldiers knowledgeable enough to captain their own vessels. We need to secure those ships before Cainon finds another meager excuse to use them against us.”
