Home. The word had always tasted so sweet on Rass's tongue, but now he found himself unable to say it. It seemed so . . . artificial--yes, that was the way to describe it--suspended so far below amidst a dense sea of morning mist. The isle of Westerwind took on an air of fantasy in the dawn's early hours, a ghost hovering upon the vast expanse of liquid all around, patrolled diligently by its thousands of renowned rainbows that made visitors gasp in wonder and natives swell with pride. But today the spectacle only heightened Rass's anxiety, and he directed Sky Maid to make her landing offshore.
Some captains boasted that their airships were their true wives, but Rass could not say the same of his Sky Maid. Her sails and fins of seafoam, sky, and lilac were certainly prettier than his homely Myranda, but a ship of sailcloth and wood could not warm a man at night nor press him to stay home from the war. However, this beautiful little maid could carry him home, and for that much Rass was thankful as the airship began her descent.
Streamers of steam spouted from the ship's slender hull, long and thin as Sky Maid herself, but only half as handsome. Captain Rass used to prize her smooth, unblemished planks, but by now even he had to admit that her fountain of youth was a secret no longer. While all ships were brilliant upon their maiden voyage, very few came back from their battles unscarred, and even those did not retain their luster for long. Hulls took beatings from rocks and rams, and sails were periodically torn or punctured; thus, the vast majority of airships were moored in need of repair. Those were war galleys, though, monstrous beasts sporting armored rams and hundreds of oars and steam jets, sluggish but murderous; Sky Maid herself was lengthy and sleek, a water damsel if Rass ever beheld one, but in the midst of battle she was good for naught but retreat, dissolving like a phantom into seas above and below. A coward's ship, thought the captain ruefully, and it seemed that all others felt an urgent need to point that out as well. "You know why they call her Sky Maid?" he could remember Long Nate teasing from the deck of his Black Slug, recalling that venomous glimmer in the other man's eye. "'Cause every voyage is her maiden one! Rass should've named her Old Maid instead!" That had reduced Nate's crew to raucous cackling fits, but that sight wasn't half as painful as the sound of the chuckles and snorts Rass had heard aboard his own deck.
"I'm just careful, that's all," was the only explanation he could muster, but while the words came unbidden he still knew the taste of a lie.
"No, no, really. No. My apologies. You didn't deserve that, pretty boy," Nate had remarked, his single hand whirring drunkenly with gestures and his eyes ablaze with the fire of hatred. "Really. There's much to be said of Old Maid's crew." His gaze had danced about the ship with cruel glee. “They all make it home alive, for one.” Again the wharves had erupted with mirth, his own crew openly joining as well, and in that instant the world had been laughing at Rass rather than with him, while his temper boiled and his veins pulsed madly within his temples. “No scars, no glory, lad. You and your little ship would do well to heed my words.” Never again had Rass felt such an urge to kill a man, but even then he couldn’t gather the courage to defend his dignity. Instead, he had retreated below deck, red-faced and humiliated. “Reckless” Rass, the crew had dubbed him less than a fortnight later, and the name had stuck like a leech. After so many decades, even with Long Nate long dead and Black Slug slithering far beneath the waves, the memory was still salt on the captain’s wounded pride. And it’s been much too long since anyone’s called me either “boy” or “lad,” or “pretty,” for that matter. Sky Maid may indeed seem ageless, but the same cannot be said of me. The captain wasn’t certain what to make of it.
“I’m just careful, that’s all,” Rass found himself whispering once again to the misty island steadily growing larger and larger ahead. Forcing Nate from his mind, he stood erect and patted Sky Maid's smooth rail. “I’m alive,” Rass affirmed. “I’m alive and Nate is dead. I still have something to live for.” Myranda and the girls. “And I’m coming home.”
The sea rippled and glimmered all around as the airship’s whirring fins drew ever nearer to its watery surface. Jets of steam jutted from the stern and were answered by the hiss of even more at the bow, and the Sky Maid gently settled her silvery hull upon the liquid landscape, sails billowing and wings ablur. Her lateral fins twisted and began to whirl like turbines, and fifty pairs of long, slender blades plunged into the glittering sea. The deck heaved and the ship gave a lurch as every gear was secured into place, and with a persistent ta-ta-ta-ta—ta-ta-ta-ta the airship propelled herself closer and closer to the island’s lonely shores.
Rass grasped the rail tightly as the Sky Maid’s prow sliced through the waves and the wind ran salty fingers through his thinning hair. It felt good to be coming home again, and earlier than Myranda would expect. He was pleased; seldom did he catch an opportunity to surprise his wife. And the girls—what age will they be now? the captain had to wonder. Mariah must be fifteen, and Nel—what, eleven? He made a mental note to ask them later. Gods, he had been too long at sea. Reckless Rass, coward that he might be, had nonetheless been a loyal bannerman to House Vollance since before it held the throne, and when its ranks were called to assemble, he and his faithful airship always came dutifully. Nowadays, though, it seemed that the royal family had made a habit of starting wars, and the times of peace were growing fewer and farther between, and as much as Rass hated to admit it, his years were catching up with him. And now we have these damn Clemett revolutionaries to deal with. He wasn’t opposed to revolution, but why did it always need to be so violent? Perhaps this’ll be my last mission. I’ll end this war and have all the rest of my long—hopefully long—life to spend untroubled by foreign matters. I just need to deliver one diplomat . . .
“You just need to deliver one diplomat,” Master Riello had instructed. Lines had traced themselves like branches across the younger man’s face, the product of many years’ worth of peace-keeping and negotiations. Doubtlessly a frustrating task, thought Rass. Even the old captain was beginning to believe it impossible. These days, patience was scarce, tempers were short, and diplomats were rare as gems in a dustpan. Thus, when the opportunity arose to ultimately end the war, Rass had been keen to the volunteer call.
Nonetheless, he had countered, “A woman. No. I will not.” Rass was a careful man, suspicious, and despite the tantalizing prospect of peace, he believed there was something to be said of superstition. “My crew will never allow it; you never bring a woman on a ship, airship or no.”
The Master had responded with an exasperated sigh. “A girl,” he corrected. “Rather, I’d call her a child prodigy. What matter is it whether or not she is male or female—or neither, for all I care? Celara is a diplomat, and a Clemett besides. Her negotiations with Westerwind are necessary for setting mutual terms, and your Sky Maid is fit for the task.” Riello’s greasy eyebrows rose and hung suspended on that odd little face of his, and his voice became a hushed rumble, like a storm in the distance, ominous and foreboding. “If you’re not willing to carry through with this, I’ll need to find another captain, one perhaps more . . . obedient. Now, which would you rather have: an end to this war, or a fistful of sailors’ tales?”
At first, his crew had objected so strongly that Rass feared a mutiny, but in the end the whole matter had become fit only for laughs and a few embarrassing admissions. Rass had been wary of the old legends, but in place of a tempest he’d met a strong wind well-suited for both wings and sail. Sailors’ tales, indeed. Say what the others might, but my miracle has finally arrived, and I’m coming home.
“Imagine that,” came a voice at his elbow. Rass jumped in surprise but kept his wits enough not to squeak like a little girl. Yurron’s chuckle chimed heartily to his left, and the captain was glad that a windburnt face held even the reddest of blushes.
“’Morning, Yurron. You startled me.”
“As always.” The first mate was grinning so wide it was almost creepy. “There it is, Reckless. Home at last! Yeeeeeeeehaaawwww!” he screamed as though his lungs were aflame. Rass resisted the urge to hide his face in his palms. “And to think you almost turned down Riello’s offer. ‘Women are like lionesses,’ you warned. Yes you did! ‘They have claws and teeth, and are as quick to turn their cloak as . . . as . . .’ I don’t even remember anymore, but don’t even try to deny it. Aggul heard you say it, too. And Jonas, but he’s lying like as not.”
“The saying goes, ‘They turn they’re cloaks at the slightest breeze,’ and you probably woke the rest of the crew if they’re not up already.”
The mate gave it a thoughtful look, but doubtlessly forgot his captain’s criticism soon after. “In any case,” he continued, “The little kitten’s coming up. Says she wants to see the rainbows.” Yurron turned sharply on his boot heels and strode back to the cabin, whistling a merry tune accompanied by the jingling of bells in his braid. “Lioness,” he sniggered before descending below.
Rass sighed. Lioness, to be sure, if that’s what you get when you breed lion with wolf. Celara, young as she may be, was Master Riello’s chosen diplomat, and the captain was not about to underestimate her importance in constructing the long-awaited peace between Houses Vollance and Clemett. But those eyes, he shivered and pulled his cloak more snugly about his withering frame. Wolf’s eyes. The girl has knowledge beyond her years. One moment she’s all innocence, and the next more fearsome than even Long Nate. Rass was not regretting having to end this voyage, despite Celara’s cheery witticisms and childish charm. The whole matter was unsettling, but his confidence was returning with Sky Maid sailing her own waters, engines wailing a triumphant tune. He could see the forbidding Bones rising to port, jutting like knives from the belly of the sea alongside the familiar wreckage of Lionfish’s striped hull. The years had faded and soiled her once-brilliant crimsons and whites, and all that remained of her dazzling fins was a rotting wooden skeleton. An assured smile played at the corners of his mouth.
Footsteps sounded from below deck, clumsy and rushed. And that would be the kitten herself. Droplets of saltwater from the airship’s fins were splattering his face as the Sky Maid cruised over waves and skimmed past a rocky point. Rass turned about just in time to see little Celara emerge from beneath, followed loyally (as always) by one of her household guards. The latter remained at the hatch, standing erect with halberd in hand, but the little girl barreled full speed ahead. Rass gathered her into his arms and hoisted her up to see over the rail.
The young girl’s wolf eyes were wide, and her mouth hung open in unspoken wonder. “They’re so pretty!” she gasped. “And look—dolphins!” She pointed at the bow, where dark shadows raced ahead in the morning light, occasionally poking from beneath the glimmering waters. Old friends. Rass had forgotten how good it felt to see the slippery-skinned creatures at their play. Celara turned to glance at him before returning her attention to the island beside them. A glimmer of brass caught the captain’s eye, and he set the girl back on deck. “Hey, now. What did I say of snooping about my quarters? Hand it over.”
She didn’t present a great fuss, for which Rass was thankful. He had never been too involved with the child-rearing process; that was mostly Myranda’s task, with him being gone to war so often. “You dropped it,” Celara lied, but she complied and handed the locket over. “What’s inside? I couldn’t get it open.”
Rass turned the brazen treasure over in his hand, rubbing its scratched surface with a gnarled old thumb. “It was a gift from my wife,” he replied, not answering her question. “Every sailor keeps a locket on his person, did you know that?” He slipped the golden chain around his neck for the first time in several years. “I had forgotten to put it on this morning, though.” Celara was wary enough not to challenge him. Ah, the wonderful company of a diplomat. The captain wound it up with care and flipped the cover open, and the half-forgotten tune spilled out like the sweetest honey:
The chandler resides in the midst of the city;
In the fields the shepherd boy sleeps.
While kings and queens take rest in their castles,
The lords make dreams in their keeps.
But mine own shelter’s beneath the gentle waves.
Those houses ashore are no place for me.
The whispering surf is my dear lady wife,
And my home, good sir, is the sea.
“I thought you said Westerwind was your home.”
Rass suddenly remembered where he was and realized that he had been singing along. He snapped the locket shut. “It is. The lyrics are just sailors’ lies. They sound . . .” he groped for an explanation, “well, musical. Dramatic. Epic.” The girl’s disturbing gray eyes hinted at confusion, and she crossed her arms stubbornly before her. “Sailors lie all the time, you know,” he disclosed. “We like to look heroic.”
Celara rolled her eyes theatrically, remarkably similar to the way Rass’s youngest daughter used to, although this girl was younger even than Nel. “I’m gonna own an airship someday,” she announced proudly. “She’ll be the prettiest pleasure barge on Westerwind, as pretty as Sky Maid. I’ll call her Sweet Music.”
Somehow, the captain wasn’t following her train of thought, but he humored her by pretending not to notice the slight to his reputation. Pleasure barge. “Really? What will she look like?”
“She’ll be long and thin and fast, and she’ll be mechanical, too, so I’ll only need five men to operate her at full speed.” The girl cheerfully held up a full hand of fingers.
“Like Sky Maid?” That made Rass abnormally proud.
“Like Sky Maid!” Celara exclaimed. “But instead of having white banners, she’ll fly the nightingale of House Clemett.”
Rass scanned the entirety of his airship, hull and mast and lines alike adorned with streamers of white silk. Atop the great mast rippled the massive snowy banner in place of Vollance’s scorpion. We come in peace. “That might not settle so well on Westerwind. The whole of the isle is sworn to House Vollance.”
“Not when I’m done here. The war will be over soon.”
Thank the gods. “I hope you are as confident as you sound, Celara. We’ve all wanted an end to this war.” He heard a cry below deck. “Now if my ears aren’t deceiving me, I believe Jonas has burnt himself operating the boilers again.”
Before Rass was halfway from the rail, though, the hatch burst open, and Aggul exploded forth like a geyser from the depths of Hell. “Captain, the—” was all he could manage before his words turned into a gurgle.
At the blink of an eye, Rass’s sunny mood had met its shadow.
A fountain of blood spilled from the navigator’s mouth as Celara’s guard planted the polished head of his halberd deep into the other man’s back. The choking sound that followed was enough to turn Rass’s stomach, but he found himself unable to urge his gaze from the gore, both horrified and entranced. Aggul had collapsed in a mangled pile, and a pool of red was seeping into every crack in the silver-painted planks, and dark, unbidden memories of carnage and battle spilled forth from the captain’s mind. Run! Flee! his instincts were screaming, but at the same time, another voice whispered, No. You cannot settle for this. Now’s not the time to be a coward, Rass. Now’s the time to be a captain. He closed his eyes and swallowed, throat parched and knees reduced to gelatin.
Rass turned his gaze to the guard, who stood motionless once more at the hatch as though nothing had happened. The man could have been made of stone. “That, my guest,” the captain began, putting extra emphasis on the last word, his voice almost a hiss, “was a mistake you’ll come to regret. Yurron! Paryn! Jonas!” His lungs felt as strong as a bellows, and he reached for his own axe. Instead of smooth, hard leather, though, his hand met soft, fragile skin.
“Wait!” The voice was high and sharp, but demanding only in the way that a young child’s could be. Celara was tugging adamantly at the corner of his sleeve. Disinclined to become another victim of this madness, Rass shot the guard a look that could wound a whale; the other man ignored him. “Captain, look!” the voice persisted. He turned reluctantly to the girl, who was pointing to starboard, to the rocky shores.
A cold, numbing sensation engulfed his body, and disbelief wound around him like a kraken’s tentacles, tightening around his throat, his heart, choking him. Myranda. Mariah, little Nel . . . Peace, my bitter peace. Hundreds upon thousands of makeshift gallows adorned the island’s rocky slopes, corpses rocking merrily about in the early morning breeze. Rass forced his eyes away and felt the deck swaying beneath his boots. My love. My home. He leaned weakly on the rail, but Celara remained rigid, her stare blank and spooky. Her eyes turned to him, grey pools penetrating into the depths of his soul, her gaze like that of a hungry wolf, countering despair with utter hostility. Abruptly, with a swift, mechanical motion, she seized the locket’s chain and twisted cruelly. The captain could’ve sworn that every muscle in his body had melted.
Although the brass bit sharply into his neck, Rass twisted upon hearing the hatch open once again, and the rest of the Clemett guards swarmed sluggishly from below, spilling their macabre loads upon the airship’s deck. The familiar ring of Yurron’s dozen bloody bells only helped to elevate the sick feeling that knotted the captain’s stomach. Paryn was moaning in anguish. One of the guards saluted the young lioness. “Revolution is coming,” he boomed.
“Revolution is here,” Celara answered, and drew a knife across the captain’s throat in one smooth, practiced stroke. “And your home, good sir,” she purred, “is the sea.”
Suddenly, the deck reeled from beneath the Rass’s feet, and his arms could no longer feel the rail, the rail he had gone through such troubles to build but seemed so trivial in this moment of greatest need. The great water plunged up to meet him, but as the cool, bright liquid tasted of sweet surrender, the salt traced a line of sheer agony across his throat. His head was pounding, pounding, pounding to the beat of Black Slug’s drums, and the ocean was growing dimmer and dimmer about him while his eyes and nostrils stung mercilessly. The muffled whirl of turbine-fins and propellers resounded from so far above. Too far. It wasn’t supposed to end this way; it was never supposed to end this way. With a sloshing echo and a hiss of steam from the stern, the airship had faded into the mist, and for once and all, Sky Maid was leaving her captain behind.