Page 49 of Tempest

CAT HAD WEATHERED storms on Rosby. It was nothing compared to weathering a storm at sea.

She awoke to thunder like cannons, firing closer and closer, until the force shook the ship from bow to stern. She felt it in her teeth, her bones vibrating with the storm. Clutching her pillow, pressed against the pitching wall of the cabin, Cat tried to go back to sleep, to no avail. When the next thunderclap sounded, she vaulted from her bunk, half tossed by the swells rocking the ship.

A single candle burned on a little table, the flame swaying with the will of the sea. But it was enough to illuminate the cramped space, the walls pressing in with every hungry wave.

Sara was already folded into the corner, a pillow over her head. The severe maid had lost all her sharpness, her meticulous hair undone and falling about her in swaying black rivers. She clutched her prayer beads in her fist, thumbing the stones one by one. Beneath the pillow, Sara peeked out and offered her free hand.

“My lady,” she murmured.

Cat took her hand gladly.

Side by side they cowered, at the mercy of a merciless sea.

Though she believed in nothing, Cat Rose prayed through the pantheon, begging to one silent god after another, until she had exhausted the deities of the Church.

Still the storm raged, every second somehow worse than the last.

Shouts echoed and Cat imagined Quine giving orders through relentless sheets of rain. She thought of Lieutenant Fell too, still clutching his hat against the wind. And perhaps Lord Rose wandering on deck, looking for someone to pay attention to him, until a wave swept him overboard to be claimed by the black deep.

Cat gripped Sara tighter and wished she knew gods beyond her own.

The gods of Esperin and Anticles were like the Meridian’s, cold statues in colder churches. Shadows cast by false shapes. Distant and beyond reach, if they existed at all.

Another wave rocked the ship, the largest yet. For a sickening moment, Cat thought they might tip over. Sara wept beside her, their hands still clasped. On the table, the candle tipped and rolled, the flame guttering out, plunging them both into heavy, heaving darkness.

“In Arcayo, they worship the Song—the sea,” Cat heard herself say, her grip on Sara even tighter. It was a dim memory against the harsh onslaught of the storm. The pages of her books blurred in her mind, the ink running like water. “The sea itself.”

“How do we pray to the sea?” Sara’s voice answered, gulping around tears. Her prayer beads wound around her knuckles, making Cat wish for a token of her own.

For something to put her faith in, even if there was nothing to believe.

The darkness pressed against her eyes, absolute in their cabin. There was no window, and not even lightning could lift the dark.

“May the sea always sing for you,” Cat murmured. It was the only thing she could think to say, the only piece of the Lyrian she knew beyond the chains of the Empire.

Sara repeated like a pilgrim following a priest. “May the sea always sing for you.”

So they went, back and forth, the seconds stretching, the minutes endless.

Until the thunder seemed a little less strong. Until the ship did not rise and fall so violently, each wave smaller and smaller. Until the cabin felt like a cabin again, and not a grave.

“Is it over?” Sara breathed, her arm clutching to Cat’s.

Slowly, Cat extricated herself from the other woman’s grip. Beneath the sleeves of her sleep shift, Cat could already feel bruises forming. It was no matter. She had left curved indentations of her nails in Sara’s hand.

“I don’t know,” Cat answered, rising to shaking feet. The deck still rolled beneath her, but at least she could stand without falling. “I’m going to find out.”

“My lady, you shouldn’t—”

“I’ll come right back, Sara.” Cat stretched out, feeling for the walls of their narrow cabin. Her fingers slid over pitted wood as she traced her way to the door. “I promise.”

There was no light in the passage, the lanterns belowdecks blown out or smashed. Blown out, Cat surmised. Navy sailors knew better than to leave them burning during a storm. Gods only knew how much oil and gunpowder lay stored through the vessel.

Her eyes adjusted slowly, the dark lifting to reveal a wash of blue spilling down the forecastle stairs. The steps gleamed, slick with rain. Then there was a peal of lightning, blinding for an instant. Cat froze, eyes too wide, until the thunder rolled.

Farther away, she told herself, exhaling in relief.

She expected a wreck when she emerged on the main deck, but Quine’s crew were as formidable as their captain. Everything was tied down and the sails reefed but for one small sheet for maneuvering. A few sailors bailed seawater over the side, moving in unison. The rest were either belowdecks riding out the storm or clustered around Quine at the helm. All of them looked run-through—red-faced and red-handed, wet to the bone.