“Are the Goblins enemies of the Sylvans?” I ask.
“They are enemies of all the Fae. They live along the northern shores of Roughlin Wake and consider these waters to be theirs. We think otherwise; these waters belong to no one people. Mostly, we are able to avoid the Goblins in our travels back and forth, but not today, it seems. Do not worry. They won’t trouble us for long.”
I am pleased by the reassurance, but not so sure it is warranted. The enemy craft is bearing down on us with increasing rapidity. The huge black sails catch the winds more successfully than our one small bit of canvas can, propelling the Goblins forward with such speed they will overtake us in minutes.
Will they ram us? If they do, those spikes will tear our little boat to pieces. And if that happens, I am in trouble, because I can’t swim. I never learned how. (Though how I know this is something of a mystery.) There is no land in sight. I glance at Harrow, but he is concentrating so hard on maneuvering our craft that I do not want to interrupt him. Hopefully, whatever he is concentrating on will get us safely away.
And then the weather changes dramatically. Gone are the blue skies and sunlight, replaced by clouds and heavy winds. Gone is the sense of peace and calm that has surrounded us the entire time we have been on the water. It has begun to rain. The Goblins are still steering toward us, and their intent is clear. I can see the ramming spikes on the warship’s prow, steel-tipped and sharp.
I am suddenly afraid in a way I have not been since fleeing the prisons. I can feel panic creeping through me as I imagine myself thrown into the waters below. I can feel the shock of the cold, and the pull of my sodden clothing dragging me down into the dark—away from the air I breathe, away from any chance of living. I manage to hold myself steady, to stay silent, to still my urge to shake, but only barely.
What can I do to save myself?
What hope do I have if I am flung into the lake?
Then abruptly the waters between the Goblins’ boat and ours darken all at once—a darkness that verges on full black. I grip my seat as if somehow it might save me. Ahead of me, Harrow is thrusting his arms in quick motions toward the attacking ship—almost as if it is his intention to hold it or to turn it away.
Then the Goblin ship simply disappears.
I gasp audibly at the suddenness of it. There one moment, and gone entirely the next.
“What…?” I manage in shock, but then go silent again.
Our craft gives a sudden lurch, a burst of speed propelling us forward with enough thrust that I am forced to hang on tightly to keep from being thrown backward. I close my eyes in anticipation of being rammed, but nothing happens.
When I open them seconds later, we are alone on the waters of Roughlin Wake, back in the pale light of the receding sun, which is lowering toward the horizon. Overhead the skies are clear once more, and the world is exactly as it was only minutes earlier.
I turn to look back at him in disbelief. “What just happened?”
“Not as much as you might think. Look over there.”
He points. A large black storm cloud is floating across the surface of the lake. Inside, just barely visible within the shifting darkness, is the jagged outline of the Goblin ship, moving off in the wrong direction, the storm cloud clinging to it tenaciously, refusing to be dislodged.
I blink. “You did that?”
“It is mostly an illusion. I created something for them to believe in and then planted the image in their minds so they could continue to see it until we were safely out of sight.” He pauses. “A bit of Fae magic.”
“But I see it, too!”
The Sylvan nods. “So do I. There wasn’t time to pick and choose which of us the magic would impact—only to make it seem real to all of us. Don’t worry; it isn’t.”
“Well, it seemed real enough!”
Harrow laughs softly as he turns back to face forward, and I am instantly irritated. Couldn’t he have said something? I believed we were about to be smashed to bits, and all the time we were…what? Not in danger? Not even seeing something real?
More use of inish, I think darkly. But then I push back against my anger and remember that I am alive and well because of this strange creature. Can I justify being angry with someone who has just saved my life not once but twice—and who is taking me to safety?
Probably.
But I compromise with a mix of irritation and gratitude.
We sail on into the darkness, but there is sufficient illumination from the moon and stars for us to find our way. I have no trouble at all picking out the cliffs ahead when we finally near land sometime around midnight. I am so tired by then I have fallen asleep, and Harrow is forced to wake me so I can watch our approach. He is right to do so. He could have chosen to let me sleep, but he senses in that strange way of his when I might want something. And I do want to see this—our first sighting of land as we approach our destination.
I sit forward at the prow and watch the landscape assume increasing definition. The mountains are easy to pick out, and when I ask he tells me they are called the Skyscrape. They appear at first to be right on the shoreline—I lack sufficient depth perception in the darkness to tell they are not—but as we continue to draw closer I realize there are forested hills between the shore and the mountains. It is impossible to tell how far back those mountains are situated or how big the country beyond might be, but Harrow tells me it will take us another two days to reach his homeland, which lies beyond the Skyscrape in a series of interlocking valleys.
His homeland, he tells me, is called Viridian Deep.
I can see trees now—or at least bits and pieces of some and faint outlines of others. But I see enough to determine the trees are of varied types. There are no trees in the wastelands larger than a Goblin, and none at all anywhere near the prison. I remember trees from my other life—one of the few things I do remember clearly—but some of these trees are massive. Some appear so large I think it must be a trick of the light—an enhancement brought about by nightfall and lack of clear vision. I want to know if they really are as large as they seem. I want to see for myself.
I want to see everything.
But when we beach our craft in a small cove where it cannot be easily seen, Harrow says we will camp close by for the night. It is still two days to Viridian Deep, and we will need our strength. Since I am already badly worn down and have to be woken just to view our landing, I am in no position to argue with him. Nor would I wish to; I am exhausted all over again. Sightseeing will have to wait for daylight and opportunity.
My rescuer leads me inland off the shoreline. When I suggest it might be pleasant to stay on the beach and sleep under the stars and an open sky after being confined so long to a cellblock prison room, he shakes his head.