burned her face raw, so once she was certain her stomach was completely empty, she retreated from the harsh, late autumn day to her room where she was trying, unsuccessfully, to suppress her nausea.
Drogan had followed her around the ship, silently watching over her, as he had since they had first met. She tried not to think about his master. Phane was still defined in her mind by the stories she’d read. It was difficult to believe that history had been so perverted, twisted, and distorted that the whole world believed Phane was a monster when he was really the true champion of the Old Law.
She wanted to believe—desperately needed to believe—that he had come to save her people. Without help, the people of Fellenden would suffer immeasurably at the hands of Zuhl’s brutes. Reports of an army marching against the barbarian horde, flying the banner of the Reishi, gave her some measure of hope that help had arrived. Was it too little? Was it too late? The sad answer for far too many of her countrymen was yes.
Tens of thousands had already perished, maybe more. The thought of it made her nausea threaten to send her into convulsions again, even though there was nothing left for her stomach to heave.
The knock came again, this time more forcefully.
Drogan looked at her, then at the door. When she ignored them both, he sighed quietly. The sea journey didn’t seem to faze him in the least.
“What is it?” he said.
“I have a meal for you,” a strangely familiar voice said through the door.
Lacy swallowed hard against a threatened convulsion.
“I’m not hungry,” she managed.
“I am,” Drogan said, getting up and going to the door.
A grimy, weather-worn sailor stood at the threshold with a tray of food.
Drogan nodded his thanks and took the tray, turning to put it on the little table bolted to the floor across from the bunk beds. In an instant, the sailor was through the door with a short, stout club in hand.
Before Lacy could muster a warning, he brought it down hard on the back of Drogan’s skull. The big man went down with a thud, lying still, though still breathing. Lacy sat up on her bed and drew her dagger.
Flashing her a wicked grin, the sailor closed the door and threw the bolt, then spun back toward her, pointing the stout little club in her direction. “Let’s you and I have a chat.”
His voice sounded so familiar.
“You have something I need,” he said. “Give it to me and I’ll let you live … for now.”
Realization slammed into her—he sounded just like Wizard Saul did after the thing made of darkness entered him.
“You’re a quick study, girl,” the sailor said, smiling at her expression. “Did you really think a little water would stand between me and my prize?”
“You’re Rankosi,” Lacy said, the tip of her dagger shaking as she pointed it toward the creature that had been hunting her since the day she’d recovered the little black box.
“Yes, I am … now give me the keystone.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
“Come now, Child. You’ve had it since the tomb. That box may be able to hide the keystone from others but not from me. Now hand it over.”
Lacy stood, shaking her head slowly, keeping her dagger pointed at the sailor.
“If you kill this body, I’ll just take another. Perhaps that one,” he said, motioning toward Drogan. “I doubt he could resist me, considering the master he serves.”
“My father entrusted me with this. I won’t fail him.”
“Oh, but you already have. You’re all alone on this ship, in the middle of the ocean … with me. There’s no one here who could ever hope to master me. Even if I fail to get my prize with this body, there are many others I can use.”
“No,” Lacy said. In that moment she was sure of just one thing—in his moment of greatest need, her father had entrusted her with this one task and she would not fail him while she still drew breath.
She lunged, driving her dagger toward his gut, but he was quick, too quick. He brought his club up, hitting her on the inside of the forearm, sending her dagger skittering under the table. She gasped at the sudden pain of the blow. Her arm didn’t feel broken, but she couldn’t make her fingers work.
The sailor crashed into her, driving her into the lower bunk, pinning her into the corner. His breath was rank and he