Maeve’s eyes widened, and she dashed forward, giving a grunt of pain as the wounds on her face and arms protested her movements. There was her sword, tucked into its scabbard with the leather belt wound around it as though to protect it. The familiar weight felt good. One hand went around the hilt, holding the familiar fibers and the grip that had given her the calluses on her palms. Her hands had gone soft in the past thirty days, and she hugged it closer, her fingers molding to the familiar dips and ridges. Her hand clenched, and a ripple of anger passed through her, slight and small, just a hint of what she would do when she was free to fight as she wished.
She frowned, aware of Sandrine watching her. Maeve considered unsheathing her sword and striking the frail woman dead on the spot, then running as fast and as far as she could before the Master and the jailers caught up with her. With a sigh, she dismissed the thought. She was determined to turn over a new leaf. No more killing, harming of innocents, trickery, or betrayal. That dark life was over; if she wanted to escape the fae, she needed to change.
She began pulling on her armor. A breastplate, gauntlets for her arms and legs, and her leather sandals with crisscross straps that went up to her knees. Finally, she lifted her crown with its ruby stone. She held it for a moment, and her eyes misted over. Queen of nothing. The ruby crown, her birthright, had been passed from generation to generation—until an earthquake and a war wiped out the people of Carn, leaving Maeve to scramble from one hired job as a warrior to the next. As much as she hated to admit it, the Master was right. She’d committed many sins. Until now.
She slipped the crown onto her forehead and felt the warmth of the ruby. Her eyes flickered to Sandrine, who watched her with a critical eye.
Maeve buckled her sword onto her back and picked up her copper shield. If nothing else, she should be nice to the scholar. Someone wise to the world could turn into a powerful ally, unless the fae were holding something over her head. “Why were you in the Dungeon of the Damned?” she asked, as a way of making conversation and finding out more about her companion.
“You mean, what did I do? They captured me for murdering my husband. I was faithful and gave the bastard nine children, and then he cast me out, exchanging me for some whore half his age. Why should he have happiness when he made me miserable? I killed him for it. I’m not sorry, so they are forcing me to join you, which is punishment enough. I’d rather rot in the Dungeon of the Damned than be forced to travel with the likes of you.” She sniffed.
Maeve’s attitude soured. She’d have to work twice as hard to gain Sandrine as an ally, for the woman seemed determined to keep Maeve at a distance.
Squaring her shoulders, she faced the sea. The crumbling staircase ran down almost to the water, and tied to a protruding stone was a boat. Maeve pointed. “Is that for us?”
Sandrine put away her book, threw her bundle over her back, and started down the staircase. “If you want to make the shore before midnight, we should leave now. I hope you have some strength in those arms to row.”
Maeve frowned and followed. “Is this the sea I think it is?”
Sandrine gave a humph. “The Sea of Sorrows. Best to be away as soon as possible, before the shadow people take your sanity.”
Maeve groaned and touched her face. Even though the fae had allowed her to clean the blood, it was still tender to the touch. The skin around her nose was puffy, and a dull pain thudded in the back of her skull. “When we reach land, I need a healer. Will you find one en route to the first shard?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Sandrine said. “When we get to the bottom, I will fix your broken nose. I assume you don’t have any other complaints?”
“You’re a healer too?”
“I dabble,” Sandrine said, but there was a lighter lilt to her tone of voice.
Maeve did not respond, although she was relieved to realize the Divine was with her. Part of her prayers had been answered. Now they just needed to navigate the Sea of Sorrows before the shadow people attacked.
The Sea of Sorrows was named for spirits who had lost loved ones and desired revenge. Instead of passing to the afterlife, they clung to their former lives and became half-alive; shadow people. They sought to take over the bodies of the living so they could enact revenge on those who had caused them misery. The fae had made their home underneath the island on the Sea of Sorrows to dissuade the living from visiting them. Only the desperate would navigate this sea, and often only with a powerful spell to keep them from being drowned by the spirits.
Maeve hoped the fae had seen fit to spell the boat that bobbed in the water. She was unsure how true the rumors about the Sea of Sorrows were, and she did not want to find out.
They continued down the old staircase, Maeve following behind Sandrine until they reached solid ground. The beach was sandy, and grit sunk between Maeve’s toes. She eyed the sea with a growing sensation of discontent. Legend said that even a drop of water against bare skin was enough to send a vision of madness into one’s mind.
“Come,” Sandrine commanded, dropping her bag into the sand.
Maeve moved to stand in front of the shorter woman.
“Kneel.” Sandrine pointed to the sand, her words ringing out with a strange power odd for someone so small.
Reluctantly, Maeve buried her sore knees in the sand. It caked on her skin, sinking into her pores and making her itch.
“Close your eyes. This will hurt,” Sandrine said.
Maeve obeyed.
Sandrine’s fingers touched the tender part of her nose. A slight pressure built until it became uncomfortable to breathe. Maeve willed herself to stay in place as the throbbing increased to a crescendo, and then just as suddenly melted away.
“That’s better,” Sandrine said, wiping her hands on her robe.
She picked up two oars and passed them to Maeve. “You’d better take these. I will navigate, but brute strength is your gift.”
Maeve took them, slightly insulted by being called a brute. Gingerly, Maeve touched her face. The swelling had gone down and there was no pain. “Thank you,” she said begrudgingly, and climbed into the boat.
It was a mere fishing boat, narrow and low to the ground, with a space in the bottom for their bundles and a plank of wood for each to sit on. Maeve dipped the oars into the water and planted her feet firmly on the bottom of the boat.
Sandrine sat down and leaned over to saw off the rope. It separated with a snap, and the vessel sank an inch or two. Using the oars, Maeve pushed away from the shore. The boat slid off easily, moving into the waves with surprising grace.
Maeve glanced down at the shimmering waters, and just beneath the surface she saw shadows glide by. The shape of a body coalesced and Maeve ripped her gaze away, focused on the horizon, and rowed as fast as she dared.
4
Sea of Sorrows
Maeve pulled hard on the oars as her gaze focused on the low clouds gathering on the horizon. A storm brewed, and the air smelled like salt. Maeve licked her lips and wished the fae had given them a boat with a sail. The wind would blow them to shore much faster than she could row, especially given her limited strength. She settled into a rhythm, her breath coming short and fast, muscles rippling. Every now and again she glanced over at her strange companion, Sandrine.