Send Me Their Souls (Bring Me Their Hearts #3) - Sara Wolf Page 0,21
place left that’s safe for witches is…” Lucien murmurs, eyes sparking as he looks up at me.
“So.” I clap my hands together, standing and dusting my garish skirt off. “How long should I book our vacation to Windonhigh for?”
5
TO VETRIS
When Varia first dragged me up here in a fit of excitement, she failed to mention the only way down off the Tollmount-Kilstead mountains involves very large and very unstable-looking hot air balloons. Or rather, hot air balloons attached to ships by copper lashing cable.
Which isn’t a recipe for disaster at all.
“For the last time, Zera, it’s not air. It’s aergasel. It’s lighter than air, and it provides support to the thrusters by lessening the velocity of the load required for takeoff—”
“Fione, you’re beautiful,” I start, wrapping the fur covering around me tighter as the crate-lugging, passenger-swarmed bustle of the chilly Breych airdocks hums around us. “And extremely smart, and incredibly good at explaining things, but alas, I have no heart and very little brain.”
“It’s not air, is all.” She leans on her cane to avoid a man carrying what seems to be ten boxes crowded with furiously mating chickens on his shoulders.
“Then why call them airships?” I ask.
“Because it’s easier than calling them aergaselships.”
“Fair.” I nod. “But still mystifying. I’d call them titships, personally.” A pause. “Because that’s what they look like.”
“Yes.” She giggles. “I got that.”
“Hey, you two!” Malachite shouts, his pale, lanky frame towering over the crowd. “This way!”
I pick up my bag and lug Fione’s far fancier one over my shoulder for good measure. She pouts, a shard of before-duchess, before-heartbreak showing through.
“I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own things.”
“I know. But do you want to?”
She glances at me sheepishly. “No?”
“That’s what I thought.” I muscle through the crowd, shoving as many people aside as will let me to make just a bit more room for her. Most of the crowd are armada soldiers, coming in from the sleek black airships sent to the Cavanos-Helkyris border. They don’t look like titships in the slightest—all dark lacquer, their aergasel balloons streamlined and tipped with terrifying black iron warspikes. They fly flags of deep purple with four bronze wildcats centered around a moon—the seal of the sage-dukes of Silvanitas, Fione informs me. Breych is, apparently, one of the few cities nearest the border, and that means one of the few places the armada can refuel.
“They got here quick, huh?” I shout back at Fione over the engine drone.
“I told you, the Helkyrisian armada is one-of-a-kind. They fly at speeds of up to thirty miles a half and can pivot 180 degrees in a matter of seconds—”
“Ooooh, cannons!”
“Are you even listening, Zera?”
“All ears, Your Grace!” A passing carriage of birch branches thwacks me in the side of the head, roughly clipping my temple. “Make that just one ear, Your Grace!”
We finally reach the far end of the dock, where a chained gangplank hovers precariously over a very far drop down into the mountainous abyss. The merchant ship it’s attached to is being loaded with barrel upon barrel of some sort of pickled good—the vinegar a strong perfume in the air. Fione gags a little, pulling her scarf over her mouth.
“It’s like—like sour feet!”
“Could be worse!” I chime. “Could be actual feet!”
The weight on my back lifts, Fione’s bag taken from me. I’m halfway through a whirl to grab whichever wharf rat thinks I’m an easy target when Lucien’s voice lilts in my ear.
“Allow me to lighten your load.”
He’s dressed in his black leathers—not the same as his disguise as the altruistic thief Whisper, but close. The hooded cowl, the closer fit for mobility. It’s an echo, but not the whole thing. He sees me staring and smiles over his cowl.
“Thought I ought to start blending in.”
“So you chose a full black outfit in a place with nothing but snow,” I drawl.
“Old habits die hard,” he says simply.
“Or not at all, in my case.” I tap my empty chest, and he laughs low in my ear, kissing my temple gingerly.
“Are you all right? I saw that load of branches hit you.”
“Oh, psh.” I wave him off and start up the gangplank toward Malachite. “Don’t worry about me.”
“What am I supposed to do, then?”
“Take up crocheting?” I throw a smile at Malachite. “Nice of you to commandeer the only ship smelling of pickled feet for us.”
“Considering they’re doing this for absolutely free”—Malachite’s milk brows knit as he leans in and whispers—“maybe don’t go around complaining about the smell.”