Page 119 of Tempest

The Arcayans thrived long before any foreign lord entered the Lyrian Sea, with no reliance on colonies or distant crowns.

Until now, perhaps. She frowned, remembering the newly built song tower in the Alvaris harbor, and the Arcayan priest in the market.

The navy’s return is not the only change, she thought, trying to predict the tipping scales of the world she once understood.

Cat knew Nera, but she knew it with Valerian at her side. She was not so observant then. It was difficult to look beyond the sharp beauty of Valerian’s face, or swim away from the churning pull of his storm-colored eyes. Her eyes stung, her heart twisting at the thought of walking the streets without him. Though Archenport was steeped in memories of it, and riddled with the faces of the dead, the city was still hers. Not like Nera. This place, this city, these people—they were Valerian’s. Here, his absence was impossible to ignore, and the hole he left behind yawned wide, threatening to swallow Cat whole.

She did not lie to Fell’s crew. It was a beautiful place on a beautiful island, every building carved and hewn like the song towers. Walls of white limestone gleamed through the city climbing up the volcano, as if the bones of the island itself poked out of the jungle. A narrow waterfall split the city in half, tumbling from the volcanic heights to travel down the steep slopes to the beach where it flowed into the harbor. The force of the plummeting water cast a sparkling mist over the city. At the right time of day, Cat knew it would be a rainbow, bathing the city in impossible light. Fuchsia-pink flowers climbed along the rooftops, their vines thorny and untamed. The riotous colors under the noon sun—green, white, pink—seemed almost too bright, too sharp, too lush. Set against the turquoise sea, it made for an impossible sight, born of dreams instead of reality.

But reality was never far away.

Cat steeled herself for the approach. Already she counted more than a dozen ships at anchor. Most had no flags on display, and she looked back, meeting Captain Fell’s eye where he stood next to the helmsman.

He gave her a single nod, grateful for her foresight.

The few flags she could see were Esperese, bearing the green cross, or Itziman, flying dark red triangles. Whereas the Arcayan flags were not truly flags at all. At least not in the continental sense. Where Esperin or the Meridian sewed their emblems on heavy sheets, the Arcayans cut strips of fabric in every shade of blue, the swaying ribbons mirroring the shifting tides of the sea. They waved from both ship masts and the song towers guarding the harbor.

All along the deck, the meager crew of the Fledge stared as they sailed. To the men of the Meridian, Nera was a jaw-dropping sight, starkly different from the cities they knew on either side of the ocean.

To Cat, she was a living ghost.

Nera was not a colonial war power and her navy was small, only a few ships lined up neatly offshore, anchored away from the single quay splitting the harbor. They were a bold contrast to the colonial ships built in Meridia or Esperin, with their single masts and shallow drafts, meant to navigate close to shore or upriver.

Hardly too large for the docks—so why anchor them away?

The answer was clear, the city harbor more full than she had ever seen it.

They moved to make room, Cat realized.

Her heart stuttered in her chest, skipping a beat. She could barely breathe as she scanned the ships again, looking for a familiar figurehead or painted name. Or even the black flag she knew so well, a skull with a golden fang, and roses curling around it.

But there was no vessel like the Covenant, no ship to rival the Meridian man-o’-war turned Meridian nightmare. The few warships in the harbor were smaller brigantines, double-masted, sleek and fast enough to run up on heavier merchants.

Cat blew out a low sigh of relief. Her luck was holding.

I need only see it through.

Chapter Twenty-Two Before

CAT AWOKE TO the sound of rain and swam slowly from the depths of sleep. She stretched beneath the blankets, eyes lidded, the world a blur as she roused. Her hands swept over soft blankets, the smell unfamiliar but not unpleasant. Dimly, she wondered if Moseley used a new soap for the washing. Something heavier, with a tinge of smoke and underlying sweetness. Whatever it was, she enjoyed it, turning to press her face into a pillow. Cat savored the minutes alone, glad that Ryman kept his own bedchamber and never lingered until morning. Even so, Moseley and Sara would be along soon enough to pull her from the grasp of a warm bed and fleeting dreams.

Cat’s stretching hands brushed wood instead of the other side of a mattress, her palm hitting the gentle curve of a wall that should not be. And the bed itself rocked beneath her, gentle but ever swaying, as if she were a babe in the cradle.

This was not Rosby.

Her eyes shot open to find a ceiling that was not her own, in a cabin she did not recognize.

She sat up to face the wall of windows, the gray light of a gray day spilling between thin curtains. Beyond, heavy sheets of rain drew across the horizon like a shroud. But not enough to hide that she was on a ship, and quite literally at sea.

The events of the previous day came rushing back in a terrible wave and Cat curled her hands, squeezing the blankets around her body to anchor herself against the onslaught. The wreck of the Venerable, Lieutenant Fell and Ryman in chains. And she a prisoner, no matter how long a leash Captain Kane gave her.

Cat forced down a steadying breath and surveyed the cabin.

Valerian Kane’s maps and papers lay like a rug across the floor, weighted down by anchoring books and trinkets. Her eyes narrowed, tracing the lay of the Lyrian Sea. And what answers she searched for, both within and beyond her grasp.

Beneath the blankets, her toes curled, and she tried not to think about her body tucked between the sheets of a pirate captain’s bunk. It certainly made it easier to sweep the blankets away and leave the surprisingly comfortable bed, her borrowed nightgown brushing the tops of her knees.

She went to the window first, squinting at the rain. The clouds hung low and oppressive but not angry like the storm before. This was just a passing rain, dumping buckets of water and little else. No lightning to split the mast, no furious winds to blow them over. Cat sent a small prayer of thanks to whatever god would listen, though she doubted they truly existed anymore. Her hand curled, wishing for a prayer bead. But hers were gone, smashed or . . .