The scholar held a pouch in her hands, and her fingers shook as she undid the knots. Her straightforward, brusque manner was still there, but her wrinkled face was pale.
Maeve followed her gaze. The shadow under the water swam closer, the inky dark splotch taking the shape of a human. Nay. Not a human. An angry soul. Maeve tried to steady her breathing as coal-black eyes stared out of the water, glaring at her. Anger rippled across the surface, and Maeve’s skin crawled as the sensation of fury came over her. She picked up her speed, but the shadow stayed with them, matching her strokes. Then a hand, pure obsidian, reached out to touch the hull of the boat and tip it over.
Sandrine’s body jerked as she hurled a black substance at it.
The shadow gave a hiss and the hand dipped back into the waters.
Maeve puffed and panted. “What was that? Salt?”
Sandrine patted her bag. “Pepper,” she grunted. “Salt would do no good. You are aware we are in the sea, which is made of salt? It would only encourage the shadow people.”
Maeve nodded, ignoring the smugness in Sandrine’s words. “How did you know it would drive them away?”
Sandrine pinched the bridge of her nose and huffed. “I’m a scholar. Are you done with stupid questions?”
Maeve pressed her lips together and threw her frustration into rowing. But it wasn’t enough. The words buzzed on her lips, begging to be said out loud. She gave in, and through gritted teeth, growled, “You don’t have to be unpleasant. We’re stuck on this quest together without a choice. We don’t have to be friends, but we can at least be amicable.”
Sandrine snorted but said nothing else, keeping her gaze on the water.
Time dragged onward slowly. Maeve glanced again toward the horizon as the sun sank, casting a rainbow of radiance across the sky. Shadows trailed their boat, although the shadow people did not come closer. The wind began to whip up, shaking the waters and casting the waves higher.
Sandrine remained a hostile companion, her gaze straight ahead. “It should be here soon. Any moment now.”
“Land?” Maeve gasped out. The speed she was rowing at strained her muscles, and her strength was fading into exhaustion. Curses came to mind as she thought of the Master, who had tampered with her strength. Without the golden collar, she could have rowed just as fast for twice as long without growing weary. Was this how humans felt all the time?
The last glimmer of light vanished and Maeve’s senses heightened. The smack of the oars moving in and out of the water made her shiver. The wind caused goosebumps to pimple on her bare skin, and a flash of purple lightning lit up the sky, showing Maeve her companion.
Sandrine stood up, making the boat rock back and forth, and pointed with a crooked finger. She looked like a wild witch as the wind pulled her silver-streaked hair free from her bun and the brief flash of light made her eye sockets appear hollow. “There!” Sandrine’s voice rang with triumph.
Maeve whipped her head around just as another strike lit up the sky. She saw craggy towers, sharp and wicked in the storm. Land. Shelter. The sight renewed her vigor, and she reached deep down into her core to pull the last strands of strength she needed. Her arms shook from the effort and her bottom was sore and numb from sitting so long on the wooden plank.
The boat shot forward, responding as though Maeve had spoken aloud to it. She closed her eyes and pulled with all her might just as a horrific clap of thunder vibrated through the waters and a cloud burst. A torrent of rain poured out of the night sky as though she had just rowed under the thunderous might of a waterfall.
The boat tipped precariously to one side, and the strength of the rain knocked an oar free from Maeve’s hand. Uttering a cry, she reached out, her fingers snatching at nothing but cold air and furious rain.
Fingers cold as death wrapped around her wrist and tugged. Before Maeve could react, memories invaded her mind, but not her memories—someone else’s.
She saw a child, a little boy or girl—she couldn’t tell with the shaved head—but the child was no more than a few years old. A strength gripped her, a desperate desire to do anything to save the child. Two people held her arms back, and she fought, kicking, biting, and scratching. Reaching the child was of the utmost importance. It was a matter of life and death. Fury engulfed her and burned like a raging fire as the strangers dragged the screaming child farther and farther away. And then she was free.
Picking up a stick, she beat those who’d held her back, once, twice, thrice, then raced after those carrying away the child. Her precious child, who she’d carried in her swollen womb for nine months and birthed after long hours of agony and pain. When she’d finally held the wailing child at her breast, a fierce joy had overwhelmed her, forcing her to sob and hold the babe close, swearing nothing would happen to it. And nothing had—until now. Until warriors invaded, destroyed her village, and killed her husband. The child was all she had left. She would not lose it.
A bonfire lit up the shadows around her. Men ran, women screamed, and children wailed. Sword and shield clanged together, but she bolted through them. Her own life was not worth saving, but she’d gladly die a thousand deaths to save the child. When she reached the ones who had taken her child, their wicked knives glittered in the light and pointed first at her and then the child.
A horrible rushing came to her head, and she screamed with all her might as they drove the blade in over and over again. She was too late. Tears streamed down her face and she beat her breast, wailing in misery.
Desperate to avenge her child, she snatched up a burning branch and ran toward them. Something went through her, and in an instant, her body went cold. So cold. Her limbs. She could not feel them. Oh, Divine One. She could not move them at all. And then there was the child, her lost child. She needed revenge. They had to pay . . .
Something slapped her across her face and Maeve gasped, limbs flailing as she came out of the vision.
“Maeve! Fool girl, wake up and swim.”
Pepper filled the air, and she coughed, thinking she might have swallowed some along with the salt water. Her insides burned and the rain would not cease. Purple lightning showed her Sandrine’s white face. She was bobbing in the water and lifting her hand to slap Maeve again.
“Wait, no. I’m here,” Maeve protested.
“Swim,” Sandrine shouted. “They will return!”
5
Bay of Biscane
The full moon shone down on the beach as Maeve and Sandrine hauled themselves out of the ocean, gagging and spitting out mouthfuls of foul water. Vivid hatred still plagued Maeve’s mind. She could not forget the vision of the woman, nor the child, stabbed before she could save it. Her limbs trembled. She tried to recall the men’s faces. They had to pay for what they had done.
“Don’t dwell on it. Whatever you saw.” Sandrine knelt in the sand, sweeping strands of wet hair back into a bun. The moonlight revealed the quaver of her chin, although her gray eyes were cold.
Maeve rose to her feet, checking to ensure her weapons and armor were all intact. “It felt real,” she whispered. “The woman. The child. The soldiers. It was awful. I never considered how someone else might feel. The victims.”