Dance of devils and dayl.., p.40
Dance of Devils and Daylight (Legion of Thieves Book 2), page 40
There was no telling if it would listen to her, she only knew that she had long since given Hex a piece of herself, and if the power was bound to her soul, then to hurt him would be to wound itself.
She stepped forward, bringing her hands above her shoulder, imagining the web of black she’d seen beneath the skin on her knee. She pushed the power out, towards Hex.
“Wait!” he called at the last second.
Freya lowered her hands. “What?”
“Tell me your favourite things,” he said.
Freya blinked. “My favourite things?”
His breathing was ragged. “Yes. All the little inconsequential things in life that bring you joy.”
“Why?”
He held her gaze. His skin was ashen – oh so ashen – and the scarf she’d placed over his shoulder was soaked through. “Because if this does kill me, I want them to be the last things on my mind.”
Freya swallowed. She tried to pull together a list of things that brought her joy. It seemed impossible when the very thing that brought her the most joy, the thing that brought her the most pain, was sitting before her, the life bleeding out of him.
Hex gave her a crooked smile. “You’re not really going to let me die first, are you?”
“I…I love cold butter on warm bread,” she blurted, giving him the first thing that came to mind. “And the ocean breeze on a warm evening.”
His eyes closed, but his smile stayed in place.
Freya lifted her hands again. They were unsteady, her voice trembling as she continued to share all her tiny joys with him. “I love the smell of ink on paper, and feeling the sun on my bare skin.”
She gently pushed the power towards him again.
“I love the smell of cinnamon and the taste of brown sugar melting on my tongue. I love the feel of a book in my hands, and the sound of thunder on the horizon.”
Hex groaned as glittering air whirled around him.
Freya squeezed her eyes closed, feeling fresh tears spill down her cheeks. “I love honey in my tea, but don’t you dare tell Connell or he’ll have me attend tea parties with him every Sunday.” She laughed through her tears. She felt the power funnelling from her fingers, but she couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes. What if it didn’t work? What if it was slaughtering him instead of saving him?
His groan began to build into a growl, and the snow began to whip at her face. She spoke louder, faster, trying to drown out the sounds. The tiny whisper in her mind telling her that she could be killing him right now.
“I love exploring rockpools and feeling the sand between my toes. I love the scent of pines and wet earth. I love hearing your laugh, and the way it makes me feel when you smile because of something I say or do. I love the way you always look like you’re about to do something that will get us arrested. I love the way you break the rules for me. I love the way you protect me, but you do it from afar because you know I can’t stand being coddled. I love that you believe in my strength and my worth. I love how you taught me to believe in them, too.”
The wind died, as though someone had snatched the world by its neck and cut off its breath. The snow melted where it landed, the power rushing back into Freya like a rip tide. She heard the crunch of something hitting the snow.
Still, she couldn’t find the courage to open her eyes. What if she had killed him. What if she had smothered him like the guard, or broken his limbs like the garrison in Irongate’s tunnel, or what if his head now lay in the snow, severed from his body?
“Hex?” she whispered.
Something shifted. Cold fingers found her face, and her eyes flew open with a gasp.
Hex stood before her, whole and very much alive.
Though blood still darkened his lips, he smiled wolfishly, the dimple in his cheek sinking deep. His eyes were bright, from pain or fever or mischief she could not tell. All she knew was that he was looking at her, wearing the biggest smile she’d ever seen him wear.
“I love you, too,” he said.
Fifty-Seven
Shadows webbed Hex’s skin, binding the tissue and filling the hole that had been punched into his shoulder. The bleeding had all but ceased, and as far as Freya could tell, so had his pain.
He tested his arm, swinging it around as if he were readying his muscles for combat. Not even a flinch. He tugged back the collar of his shirt again, studying the blackened skin.
“Incredible,” he breathed. His twinkling eyes narrowed on Freya. “Your knee wasn’t sprained at all, was it?”
She rolled her eyes, fighting a smile. “Did you really only figure that out just now?”
He shrugged. “Bryn said his power couldn’t heal. I presumed yours would be the same.”
Freya snapped a low branch off a nearby tree. “My power is Bryn’s power.”
“Then how come you can do things he cannot?”
Freya walked around the horse, running her hands across its back as she approached its rump. She took the end of its tail and twined the thick hairs around the branch. “That is something I am trying to figure out myself.”
“Maybe the power adapts to the needs of its wielder.”
Freya had considered this. It would make sense, if the power was bound to its host’s soul. At their core, everyone’s values and beliefs were different. No two people ever lived the same life, shared the same story, or were shaped the same way. Perhaps that was where the difference lay between what Freya could do, and what Bryn could not. Their stories and experiences, and what they valued most in life.
Hex knelt in the snow, offering Freya his knee so that she could mount the horse once more. He was eager to keep moving, less Jorch’s soldiers were hunting them down.
The ventured into the forest, letting the branch trail behind them, stirring the snow to cover their tracks. Within the hour Hex turned the horse north, bringing them out of the forest and onto the hills. The sun remained hidden by the mottle of gray cloud, though the day remained blissfully dry.
By the time the sea came back into sight, Freya’s rear end had gone numb, her back ached, and she wasn’t even sure she had control of her legs anymore. She’d already decided riding a horse was best suited to being a one-time experience.
They stopped on a ridge, looking down upon the discordant coastline, into the valleys that had been eroded by the sea. White waves crashed onto pebbly horseshoe shores. Tall rocks broke the water, providing the perfect cover for a ship.
But their ship – the Scoutess – was not there.
Hex kicked the horse on.
“What happens if they’re not here?” Freya asked, watching the rocks dwindle as they continued on.
Hex’s arms remained comfortingly on either side of her, holding her close to him and keeping her in her seat.
“They’ll be here,” he said, but his voice held an edge that sounded a little raw, as though his words were spoken as much for himself as they were for her.
They continued down the coastline until the sun had outrun them and hung over the horizon.
Freya’s hips ached. She shifted uncomfortably, trying to return some feeling to her legs. After a few more minutes she said, “I need to walk for a bit.”
Hex gently pulled the reins. He dismounted first, taking her waist and catching her when she all but fell off after him.
She stood, the ground shockingly hard beneath her feet, testing she could still bend her knees before she tried to walk.
Hex had been quiet for a long time, and she could sense his unease. If the ship wasn’t in these bays, then either they’d chosen the wrong path and they’d have to ride back the way they came, or something had happened to the crew. Neither option boded well for them.
She scanned the bays below, willing the ship to appear. The only sign of life came from a sea-side village nestled in one of the farther valleys. Tiny whisps of smoke curled from dark chimneys. Soon night would fall, and the village would be the only light left to stand against the vast expanse of dark. At least they would have somewhere to spend the night, if they weren’t captured first.
“How is your shoulder?” she asked Hex as they walked. She kept her eyes on the water, hoping the ship was simply waiting for them out of sight.
Hex pulled back his collar again. Black tendrils continued to weave his skin and he rolled his shoulder with ease.
“Frighteningly well,” he answered.
Freya eyed the village as they drew closer to it. Somehow asking about it felt like a failure, like if they stopped walking then they were giving up. But they could not walk all night. The horse was exhausted. They were exhausted.
In the last two days Freya could count on one hand the number of hours sleep she’d had. And she guessed Hex had only managed a fraction of that.
“We need to rest for the night,” she said, waiting for him to insist they keep moving.
Instead he ran a hand over his face, sighing heavily. “I know.”
Freya watched him. Like her, he scanned the darkening water, watching as the light bled out on the horizon. If the crew had gone dark, as Hex had instructed, then they would be impossible to find once night arrived.
He clicked his tongue, steering the horse down the ridge and into the valley. Freya followed, letting him choose their path.
The village was tiny, a collection of a dozen small stone and mortar houses that clustered together above the water’s edge. Though smoke curled from most of the chimneys, gray curtains were drawn over the windows, sheltering the houses from prying eyes.
Freya felt as though they were disturbing some kind of precious peace as they walked the only path into the tiny town. Aside from the crashing waves, there was no noise, no music, no conversation to be heard. It was as though the town were sleeping, even though the sun still bled against the horizon.
Two fishing boats bobbed in the bay’s shallows.
Hex led her to the door of one of the larger buildings. From the outside it looked as though it could be a tavern, though it lacked the usual ebullience that taverns typically oozed.
He rapped his fist against the wooden door.
It was yanked open from the other side. A middle-aged woman with frazzled red hair semi-tamed by an old headscarf stood on the other side. Her wide eyes were filled with worry, and she clutched the doorframe.
“Yes?” she asked, voice as unsteady as she looked.
Hex cleared his throat. “Good evening, ma’am. My name is Hektor. This is Frey–”
“Oh,” the woman wailed. She looked weak in the knees. “Is this about Alec? Is my son dead?”
“Er…” Hex shared a look with Freya. “Your son?”
The woman nodded hastily. “My Alec. He was drafted two weeks ago. Taken by the scruff of his neck. We were told he was going to fight in the southlands.” Tears filled her eyes and she pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. “Do you know if he’s okay? Do you know if he’s alive?”
Hex frowned. “I’m sorry, I do not know of your son.”
“So, you’re not from the garrison then?”
Hex weighed his answer. “No, ma’am. We’re travellers looking for shelter for the night.”
The woman rocked back on her heels, breathing a sigh of relief. She dabbed at her tears. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice frail with emotion. “Only last week they came to tell us Magdalea’s son had perished. We are nothing without our children. I thought you were here to… I thought he was…”
Freya offered a sympathetic smile. “We wish your son nothing but good health and fortune.”
The woman sniffed. “Thank you, dear. Now, travellers you say?” Her eyes swept up over them, properly taking them in for the first time. “What on earth happened to you?”
Freya looked at Hex. She had forgotten all about their appearances. There was blood on them both, though it had dried, and Hex’s jacket and shirt were stained and torn. His hair was windswept and there were bruises beneath his eyes. Freya could feel the tightness of skin where the gash marred her face. Her hair felt tangled with dried sweat and dirt.
“We were separated from our travelling party,” Freya said. “We had heard they might have come this way.”
“Not many who come this way,” the woman answered. “Can’t blame them really, a fishing village like this isn’t much of an attraction. Aside from the soldiers, you’re the first folk I’ve seen travelling through here in months.”
“The rest of our party are travelling via ship,” Hex explained. “Perhaps you’ve seen one? Rather large, three masts.”
The woman’s brows furrowed. “You’re not talking about the Man ‘o War, surely?”
Hex straightened. “Yes, actually. You’ve seen it?”
Freya could see the woman’s respect waning. “The damned thing nearly gave my husband a heart attack. What’s a Man ‘o War doing in these waters? Is that why they’re drafting our boys for service?” Anger sparked in her eyes as she looked between them. “Do you lot have something to do with it?”
Hex looked uncomfortable. “No, ma’am. We’re trying to stop a war, not start one.”
The woman had found her strength again. “And how do you plan to do that?” she demanded. “By fighting? Let me tell you something about war, boy. It doesn’t matter what your cause is – you cannot fight against war, you can only fight in one. War has no heroes or champions, only victims. Our enemies and allies all bleed and die the same.”
Hex cleared his throat. “We really just need to find our ship,” he said. “And once we do, I promise we will leave.”
The woman grabbed her skirts and stepped out of the house. She shouldered past Hex, stomping down towards the bay. The stones crunched beneath her boots. Three old wooden boats sat on the shore, their wood tired and dull. Barnacles clustered on the shallow hulls, and their bottoms were filled with torn nets and rusty chains.
Somewhere in the distance, Freya thought she heard the screech of an eagle. Other seabirds hopped along the shore, and she convinced herself it could have just as easily been a seagull.
The woman stabbed a finger at the hills, in the direction Hex and Freya had originally been heading.
“It’s sitting yonder,” she snapped. “Now if you really want to stop this war, you think long and hard about what I said.” She pushed past them again and strode back to the house.
Hex and Freya shared a look. Then Hex sighed, shaking his head as he turned to follow the woman. He caught the door before she slammed it shut.
“What do you want now?” she asked.
He held out the reins of the horse. “I don’t suppose you’d like to trade one of those boats for a horse?”
It took some convincing, and the rest of Hex’s coin offered alongside the horse, but the woman finally agreed to lend them a boat to get to the Scoutess.
The sun had slipped away, dragging the clouds with it, leaving them beneath a sky full of stars as they pushed the dingy off the shore. Hex took the oars, insisting his experience and strength would make the journey faster.
Freya’s breath clouded before her as she huffed. It was freezing, but she had never seen a sky so bright. She craned her neck to watch the sky as Hex rowed them out of the bay.
She could have been imagining it, but she swore she could see a greenish glow on the horizon. A mottle of blue and green light, growing and shifting until she had to blink to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. It grew stronger the farther from land they rowed.
“Oh,” she breathed, her eyes wide. The light stretched over them like rays of green and blue sunshine.
Hex followed her gaze up and smiled. “Ah,” he said, the oars splashing softly as he rowed. “The dance of the Sea of Souls.”
“The Sea of Souls?” Freya echoed. Her fingers curled over the edge of the boat as she knelt, wide eyes beholding rivers of turquoise lustre that swept through the sky and gently brushed the ocean’s surface.
“The spirits of those who die at sea,” Hex answered, “lifting into the sky to make their journey home.”
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured.
“It’s celebrated among pirates, you know? We call it the Sky Dance. If we were on the ship right now, we’d be drinking and dancing beneath our brothers and sisters, celebrating their life and their return to their homelands.”
“How come I’ve never heard of this before?” she asked, turning to look at him. The light caught his hair, staining the top strands silver and blue.
He shrugged, his eyes twinkling. “I guess you’ll have to stick around to learn more of our secret traditions.”
“Unfortunately your ship lacks a pastry chef,” she quipped, turning back to the water to run her fingers through the ripples.
Hex’s voice was smug. “I’m sure I can employ one. I’ll even build you a stables. You can ride around the deck like the bossy woman you are.”
A bubble of laughter escaped her, and she clapped her other hand over her mouth. When was the last time she laughed? When was the last time she felt this…weightless?
She tore her gaze away from the water to look at him. She expected him to be watching the light, too, but his eyes were transfixed on her. Green, as dark as the night and as bright as the water, threatened to drown her.
He was smiling, his face half-caught in the glow. His shoulders rolled as he worked the oars, sleeves rolled up over his elbows. Droplets of water splashed against his forearms, traversing his skin until the light shifted and she could no longer see where they ventured. Water was an odd thing to be jealous of.
Blushing, Freya tipped her face skyward. She listened to the soft splash of the oars as she watched the light that shivered around them. Rivers of blue and green, brighter than any flame and more brilliant than any precious stone rippled through the air.
Magic. But not dark and foreboding like the shadows haunting her. This was bright, and soft, and full of wonder. She imagined the song of a thousand souls whispering through the dark. The souls of those who had died at sea, returning to their homelands….
“When did you see this last?” she asked.
“It’s been a few years.”
“Could…” Freya swallowed around a sudden lump in her throat. “Could my father be one of them? One of the souls making their way home.”
