The Crown of Embers (26 page)

Chapter 24

N
IGHT
comes early with the mounting clouds. Crewmen light the ship’s lanterns and quietly go about the tasks of tying down cargo and checking and rechecking the rigging. I marvel at their brave acceptance. They continue to avoid me, but after watching them at work for a bit, I can’t help it: I have to seek them out. Accompanied by Hector, I pat each one on the shoulder, ask his name, tell him “Thank you.” Up close, it’s easier to see the fear in their weathered faces. But they still manage to duck their heads and mutter a few clumsy “Your Majesty”s.

There can be no doubt that we face a hurricane. Already the lanterns swing violently as we dip and plunge through the sea. White water gushes over the prow at irregular intervals, soaking everything. We’ve shortened the sails to take less wind, and several crewmen have lashed themselves to the rigging, ready to cut the sails completely if the masts start to give way.

I stand with Felix and Hector near the ship’s wheel, for we are sure to go off course. No ship can sail directly into a storm. The best we can do is tack through the water, pushing directly into the waves whenever possible to avoid being capsized. My Godstone and I will be the ship’s compass, pointing us in the right direction as we do our best to make corrections. Hector holds thickly coiled rope in his hands, ready to tie me down if the waves threaten to wash us overboard.

I have trouble keeping my feet as we climb and dive. In the night, the waves are a huge black darkness tipped in foamy white, swelling higher than the gunwale, but always, at the last moment, our prow breaks through and my stomach drops as we slip down the other side.

Felix tells me it’s too early to be afraid, that they’ve survived harsher weather than this. “We are barely at the edge of the storm, Your Majesty,” he says with a grin that holds more mania than humor. “The worst is yet to come.”

An older man with a gray beard and a missing earlobe rushes up to the captain and yells, “Bilge is halfway to the first mark.”

“What does that mean?” I holler through the wind.

“Some of the water coming over the side filters down to the bilge,” Hector yells back. The wind has whipped his hair into a wild, curly mess. “Someone mans the pump at all times, but if the water gets high enough, we’ll have to use buckets too. If it goes past the third mark, the ship is lost.”

And then it begins to rain in great stinging sheets.

The deck is slick and chilled. I cling to a bit of rail stretching across middeck that seems to be made for that purpose. The sky flashes brighter than daylight a split second before thunder crashes around us.

God, please show us the way and keep us safe.

A smidge of warmth snakes through me, bringing the sensation, stronger than ever, of tugging at my navel.

Hector bends close. “You just prayed, didn’t you?”

I look up at him, surprised.

“I can always tell,” he says. “Your face changes.” He wears a slight smile, as if we’re sharing a secret. Lamplight shines against the planes of his sea-soaked face.

The ship rolls sideways, flinging me against him. He wraps one arm around me, braces us against the railing with the other. “Maybe having you on deck is not such a good idea,” he says in my ear. “You heard what Felix said. Things are going to get worse.”

“I have to help navigate!”

“There will come a point when it doesn’t matter anymore, when we just have to survive.”

I stare up at him, acutely aware in spite of everything of the way our bodies are pressed together. What if I
don’t
survive? It would surprise no one if I died young, like most of the bearers before me.

Or worse, what if
he
doesn’t survive? I lost Humberto before I could tell him how I felt. I can’t bear to do it again.

“Hector, I need to tell you—”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he says, putting a finger to my lips. “No good-byes, no confessions. Because we are going to live. Both of us. It’s faith, right?”

Lightning streaks the sky behind him, as if in punctuation. “Yes,” I say. “Faith.” He’s right. I need to prepare to
live,
not to die.

Maybe I’ve been preparing to die for too long—ever since that day in the desert when I decided it would be better to die in service to God than to live uselessly. And maybe I will. Maybe tonight.

But I’m suddenly frantic to do something—anything—to prove to myself that I won’t, to feel some kind of power over my predestined future. Hector’s face is very close. It would be so easy to wrap my arms around his neck, force his lips to mine, and kiss him until we are both breathless.

I want more from Hector than a single ill-timed kiss. No, I want more from life. I clench my fists, and my nails bite into my palms as I think,
My supposed
destiny
can drown itself in the deepest part of the sea. Along with everyone else’s plans for me.

“Elisa?”

“I’ll be right back!” I yell, and dash across the deck to Captain Felix’s quarters.

I bang open the doors, and Mara looks up, startled. She’s huddled on the floor at the foot of the bed, knees to chest, and her cheeks are streaked with tears. “Elisa?” she says waveringly.

I shed water everywhere as I grab my pack and drop down beside her. The ship rolls while I reach inside for the naked figurine that holds the lady’s shroud.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Preparing to live.” I put my hand to the stopper.

Mara grabs my wrist. “Wait.” She reaches for her satchel and retrieves a matching figurine. “Me too,” she says with a shaky grin. “Ready?”

In answer, I pull the stopper and upend a few seeds into my palm. She does the same. In unison, we toss them back and start chewing. They’re bitter and hard and taste faintly of lemon rind.

The ship rolls again, and I almost choke on the seeds. The captain’s chair slides across the planking and tips over at our feet. Mara whimpers. I wrap my arms around her, and she does the same right back, mindless of my soaked state. I shouldn’t linger, but I revel in the luxury of stealing these precious moments with my friend.

“You should go,” she says, disengaging.

I rise to my feet, and though the floor sways beneath me, I feel steadier than I have in a while. “Stay here. I won’t risk you getting washed overboard.”

She nods. “Be safe, Elisa.”

I open the doors to a dark deluge. Water pours from the frame, soaking the entrance. Hector is there already, as if standing watch, and he helps me fight the wind to pull the doors closed.

My thanks are whipped away as we lurch and slide across the deck. Captain Felix mans the wheel himself. “I need a bearing, Majesty,” he shouts.

I grab the rail and close my eyes. Wind sends rain stinging into my face, and it’s a moment before I can focus enough to feel the tug, but it’s there, steady and sure. I point toward starboard. “That way.”

What I don’t tell him is that the Godstone has gone ice cold.

Felix gives the order and swings the wheel while others adjust the sails, and slowly, gradually, we fight through wind and waves toward a new heading.

During the next hour, the waves grow higher. The deck tips precariously as we climb and plunge. My hands become stiff with cold, and my grip on the rail slips. I slide to the deck and wrap a leg around the rail instead. Hector takes it as a cue to tie me down. He wraps the rope once around my waist and ties off with a quick but sturdy knot.

Then he pulls a long dagger from one of his vambraces and plunges it into the planking beside my knee. “If something happens to me,” he yells, “you may need to cut yourself free.”

I nod, praying,
Please don’t let anything happen to Hector.

Lightning streaks the sky ahead, illuminating the strangest cloud I’ve ever seen. It’s a long, crooked finger poking at the ocean’s writhing surface, sending spray in all directions.

I tug on Hector’s pants and point. But there is only darkness, and he looks at me, confused. “Wait for the lightning. Watch!”

The next time lightning cracks the sky, the finger cloud is even closer, close enough for me to understand its Godlike power, how even the mighty sea tossing us about like driftwood is helpless against it.

“Tornado!” Hector yells, and others take up the cry, but their syllables are washed away by driving wind and stinging rain.

The ship rolls, so hard and fast that Hector falls hard to the deck. He slips across the planking, toward the edge.

“Hector!” I reach for him, but the rope at my waist holds me fast.

He grapples against the planking, finds purchase with his fingertips, but the
Aracely
continues to tip. Water pours by him, and I know he can’t hold on for long.

“Felix, help!” I scream, but thunder booms all around us, and he does not hear. He fights with the wheel, straining to turn the ship into the wave before we capsize.

I grab for the knife at my knee. It takes both hands to pry it from the deck. I start to saw at the rope around my waist, but then I get a better idea.

“Hector!” I wave the knife to make sure I have his attention, then pantomime what I plan to do. He nods once, his face veined with strain.

I aim carefully, then let the knife slide toward him. He hangs by one hand as he reaches out to catch it, flips it around, slams the blade hard into the deck.

I breathe easier, knowing he’ll last longer holding to a knife grip. Hopefully long enough to crest this wave.

All available deckhands are at the opposite side of the boat, clinging to the rail, trying to use the weight of their bodies to keep the
Aracely
from going over. Felix continues to battle with the wheel, gesturing wildly to adjust the sails.

I look toward the masts and see the problem: the mizzen sail has not turned like the others. Something must have broken; it’s dragging us, keeping us from steering into the wave. Two figures hang like spiders from the rigging, sawing at the ropes to cut the sail free.

Hector has begun a stomach crawl toward me, using the dagger to pull himself up, which means that for the split second it takes to reposition the dagger, he must hang by the fingertips of one hand. I shout at him to stop, but a blast of seawater fills my mouth and chokes me.

Something claps, like a drumbeat, and the mizzen sail drops for a split second before being snatched away by the wind. Only one man remains in the tattered rigging near the mast. Where is the other?

Realization dawns.
Oh, God. He’s gone.

But now the ship turns, with agonizing slowness. The prow rises. Water gushes over my face, up my nostrils. I’m hacking and gasping for air as the bowsprit pierces the wave’s crest.

And then we’re falling, falling into the trough. I feel Hector’s arms wrap around me as we level off at last.

Thank you, God. Thank you.
Hector leans against my shoulder in exhaustion, and his chest lurches against me as he coughs water from his lungs. He clings to me, taking strength instead of giving it for once.

“Majesty!” Captain Felix yells. “A bearing!”

The tug is stronger than ever. I point, to port this time, as lightning flashes a portrait of the sky.

I am pointing directly at the tornado, which is nearly upon us.

The captain gapes at me, frozen with shock. His beard is plastered to his face, and it seems as though I stare down a darker, wilder version of Hector. He starts to protest, but a deckhand plunges across the deck to the wheel. “Bilge is to the third mark,” he yells. “We cannot bail fast enough.”

Felix’s features soften as he nods acknowledgment, and the deckhand disappears as quickly as he came. The captain closes his eyes, caresses a spoke of the wheel. His lips move with prayer, and I know he is preparing to die.

One arm still wrapped around Hector, I put my free hand to my stomach. The rope at my waist is in the way. I wrestle it downward to reveal my Godstone, and the effort scrapes my skin through my saltwater-soaked blouse.

I place my fingertips to the stone.
What am I supposed to do? I know I should have faith, but this, God, this is impossible.

The boat is suddenly steady, though spray comes at us from all sides. It’s the tornado, more powerful than even the waves, forcing calm to the nearby water before sucking it up.

Hector shifts so that I sit between his legs. He wraps one arm around the railing, the other around me, as if he can protect me from the monster bearing down on us.

I lean back and lift my lips toward his ear. “Pray with me,” I say.

“I have been.”

I find his hand, guide it toward my navel, press his fingertips over my blouse to my Godstone. I hold it there as I intone, “Blessed is he who walks the path of God. He shall stray neither to the left nor the right, for the righteous right hand guides him for all his days.”

Hector is muttering too, urgently, though I can’t make out the words. There’s power in this, something about the two of us praying together; it builds inside me.

“The champion must not waver,” I say, as warmth floods me until my body sings with it, until I am a goblet about to overflow. “The champion must stay the course. Yea, though he pass through the shadows of darkness he shall not fear, for God’s righteous—”