Tress of the Emerald Sea (The Cosmere)(77)
“Talking about visiting the king’s island didn’t make you shut up,” she said, “but talking about the Sorceress’s island did…” She stood up. “I need a map.”
And there. After only a few days of trying, she’d discovered more about helping me than Ulaam had in our year together. That stupid shapeshifter was enjoying this. I swear, they’ve all been getting weirder ever since Sazed released them.
Anyway, Salay was at her usual post, guiding the ship deeper into the Crimson. She didn’t have a map of the Midnight up there, but—upon Tress’s request—she sent a Doug to fetch one from her quarters. It wasn’t particularly detailed; none of the maps of the Midnight Sea are. Fortunately, the shape was roughly correct, since all of the seas are basically pentagons.
Tress started pointing to places on the map and asking, “Hoid, I’d like you to guide us here. Could you do that?”
Each time, I told her some terribly interesting fact about a place—such as having walked there wearing butter instead of shoes. Until she reached a specific point.
When she asked about that one, I fell silent.
When I stop talking, people often act happy. It’s a hazard of my profession. But this time it was different. Tress pulled the map to her chest, her eyes watering.
She knew where the Sorceress’s island was. Near the border of the Midnight Sea and the Crimson Sea, perhaps half a day’s sail inward.
It was the first concrete piece of information she’d found. The first real step toward rescuing Charlie. It was a beautiful moment that was ruined as a sudden line of rainfall appeared on the horizon—then shot straight for our ship.
THE MUSICIAN
I know that sailors fear storms on your planet. It’s common among all seafaring cultures I’ve met. Interestingly, most also ascribe—or in their past used to ascribe—volition to storms. They never simply are. They want something.
The weather patterns on Tress’s world aren’t specifically Invested—so they aren’t self-aware. But you wouldn’t have known that from the way the rain came straight toward the Crow’s Song.
Tress stared at it, growing numb, the joy of her grand discovery fading. It could all end right here, couldn’t it? All her struggles, her preparations…it could simply end. The Crow’s Song could vanish in the rain, speared through at a hundred different angles, then pulled into the deep.
And Tress was powerless to do anything about it.
Moments like these bring wind and rain to life. We need purpose; it’s the spiritual conjunction that glues together human existence and human volition. Purpose is so integral to us that we see it everywhere.
Sky gods, making thunder with their shouts or causing lightning to fall with their steps. Winds named and granted different intentions and motives, depending on the direction they blow. Rains withheld, granted, or sent to destroy, depending on the turning of celestial moods.
A storm is not an object like a box or a tree. Even to the more scientifically-minded, storms are more notion than numbers. When does a drizzle become a downpour, and when does a downpour become a storm? There’s no firm line. It’s about how you feel.
A storm is an idea. It’s much more powerful that way. Watching the rain bear down on her—crimson spikes marching behind it like the crossed spears of royal guards—Tress wanted it to be a deliberate act of the moons. She didn’t want her death to be meaningless.
The ship lurched to the side, making Tress stumble. She cried out and grabbed the rail, then quickly snatched the map of the Midnight Sea before it could blow away. Another lurch of the ship sent her stumbling the other direction. It seemed random to her, but Salay was calling orders nearby, and the Dougs obeyed, managing the sails.
Salay didn’t particularly care if her death was meaningless or deliberate. Provided it was a long time coming.
As I mentioned, on your planet, you may be accustomed to the helm position on the ship being relatively unimportant.
Not so on the spore seas. The ship lurched again, wood groaning, canvas rattling. A sailing ship isn’t like most vehicles; it takes time and effort to change its momentum. Tress hung on, eyes wide, as Captain Crow caught a dropped rope and pulled it tight. Even she obeyed Salay’s orders in this moment.
Nearby, three Dougs rushed to the wheel, helping Salay heave to the side, bending hundreds of tons of wood to her will. The Crow’s Song veered right to the side of the line of rain, skirting so close to the wall of aether that a few of the crimson spears scraped the hull. Salay called for the sailors to steady and slow, for a reason Tress didn’t understand—until she saw that the giant snarls of interlocking spikes were sinking.
The aethers emerging from their spores had set the sea rippling, and their retreat doubled that, making it billow and quake. You don’t normally get true waves on the spore seas—not like you do on liquid oceans—but when you do, they’re extremely dangerous.
The Crow’s Song shook like the ice in a good cocktail, then tipped to the side like the person who’s enjoyed too many. Tress immediately felt sick to her stomach, then panicked at the thought of what vomit would do on a deck in the middle of the spores. She managed to find a bucket, her first job on the ship proving useful in an unexpected way.
Through it all, Salay kept shouting orders. It was almost as if she kept the ship from capsizing through sheer force of will. She moved the vessel at times against the waves, but at others she spun the wheel to flow with the pattern. In those few moments, the ship was a giant musical instrument, and she played it as a master, steering us to safety.