effectively ending this conversation as I peek out through heavy satin curtains to confirm it’s nightfall.
Ilia was wise enough not to take us to the healing ward for recovery, but to her personal home. Though I’ve only seen the guest suite, its beautiful white stone flooring and lattice ceiling is enough to tell me this place is grand.
While my leg has mostly healed, there’s still an aching in the muscles of my left thigh that screams with every small step. I grit through the stiffness of the muscles, and take Bastian by the forearm as we climb down a spiral stone staircase.
“The others should already be waiting,” he says, going as slow as my needs dictate. Which, unfortunately, is little more than a slow crawl.
I’m expecting a silent night upon the shore when Bastian tosses the door open, but what I receive is far beyond that.
The shore is lined with Curmanan citizens dressed in their finest, their heads bowed and hands lifted with offerings—silks, fruits, sweets, stretching the entirety of the way down to Keel Haul.
I stumble at the sight of them, surprise snatching my breath. Bastian presses a steadying hand to my back, grinning at the display before us.
“I know I wasn’t supposed to tell them,” Ilia’s voice comes quiet and timid from the porch, “but your people didn’t get long to see you, and they wanted to say goodbye.”
Carefully I unlace my arm from Bastian’s, straightening to hide my injury as I make my way onto the shore.
The first person waiting there is a man I recognize from the night of the party, someone who made polite conversation. He lowers to a knee, and offers a gorgeous silk shawl. “To keep you warm on your journey,” he says as I take the silks slowly, brushing my fingers along the luxurious fabric.
Beside him, a woman with a loose chignon drops to a knee and offers a bottle of sparkling red wine. “To keep you free on your journey.”
I laugh and thank her, handling the bottle to Bastian, who lingers protectively behind me. Even the Ikaean reporter waits upon the shore, hands trembling as he offers apologies in the form of sweets. To him, I turn up my nose and walk away. While I never had the chance to say anything to him, it looks as though Casem’s given him quite the lecture.
I wish I could sample the food my people offer, or the lotions and oils they place into my palms. I want to trust them, but the aching of my thigh reminds me I’m safer if I don’t. I’ll smile and accept their offerings, but it will only be to later dispose of anything that could be laced with poison. As painful as it is, it’ll be safer that way.
Even the Curmanan soldiers help carry the offered goods up to Keel Haul, and for one of the first times since summer, my chest swells with pride.
Perhaps Elias truly was an anomaly. Perhaps not everyone thinks I’m doing such a horrible job after all.
Casem waits for us on the base of Keel Haul’s ramp. “I’ll pray that your time on the other islands will be safer and grander than what you’ve experienced so far.” He stretches out his arms, scooping me into a tight hug. I laugh weakly against his chest, returning it.
“Give Mira my regards,” I say as I ease away, letting Casem linger back toward the edge of the ramp. “And tell my mother we’re headed to Valuka, next.”
Casem keeps his face stern as he smooths pale fingers through his honey-blond waves. “I’ll let them know to start preparing. If you need anything, have Ferrick contact me. He’s a horrible mind speaker—always sounds like he’s yelling through a conch shell—but he should be able to reach me.”
“I will. And I’m sorry to ask this of you, Casem, but … you know what to do with Elias.”
He nods swiftly, not needing me to elaborate. “I’ll deal with it. You focus on taking care of yourself, all right? We’re going to get through this.”
Nodding, I release him and start up the ramp to where Shanty and Vataea wait for me, wearing proud smiles.
As we draw up the anchors, drifting away from the docks, Bastian casts me a look over his shoulder. “To Valuka?”
“To Valuka.”
Bastian lifts a compass to the air and twists the helm, setting our course westbound. “Hang on tight, Ferrick, and try to keep that stomach of yours. We’re in for a bumpy night.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Not even the