The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(24)
I had not seen him since I’d told him I was taking the helm, in what might have been the least dramatic mutiny in history or myth. Even the crew had seemed unsurprised; Bee had only nodded at the news, and Rotgut had muttered that he’d known this day was coming. But as the wind breathed life into our sails and the sea unfurled before me, I couldn’t help but think of Slate, lying in his cabin three yards under my feet.
I was not yet accustomed to taking the helm without my father at my side. I gripped the wheel tighter; it was fashioned of teak and bronze and inlaid with the words of the wheel of fortune in Latin: regnabo, regno, regnavi, sum sine regno. I shall reign, I reign, I have reigned, I have no kingdom.
Absently, I ran my thumb over a blue patch of verdigris. The first time I’d read those words, the Temptation had been at half sail in a mythical version of the Pileh Lagoon, where limestone cliffs cupped the calm jade waters like the fingers of a benevolent god. Earlier that day, Rotgut had bought a box of fruit off a peddler’s colorful skiff; Slate had dumped out the produce and turned the box upside down, setting it before the wheel so I could reach the handles. Laughing, he’d stood behind me, adjusting my hands, showing me how to steer as lychee rolled this way and that across the deck. In the water, white hong swans with long flowing tails drifted around the ship, and their song was the sound of bells chiming.
But the Mer d’Iroise would be nothing like the still waters in Thailand. Would we be ready for the rough seas ahead? I swept my eyes across the deck to check the crew, but everyone was in place. Bee at the foremast, the cowbell clanging against her thigh. Rotgut up in the crow’s nest, peering out with bright eyes at the shining water. And Kashmir, near the mizzenmast, his knees bent, his body moving with the ship as she skipped over the rippling bay.
I had insisted on checking his jack lines myself before we’d left the harbor. He’d watched me fuss, his expression serious. Kash had changed clothes in preparation for visiting an older era—a white tunic over dark, slim-fitting britches—but as I’d tugged the straps of his harness, I’d noticed the lock was still at his waist, hanging from his black leather belt. Would it be a weight, or a buoy? Swallowing, I’d started checking the straps a second time, but he caught my hand. “Aroom bash, amira. The lines are strong. The only way I’ll be lost is if the ship goes down too.”
“That won’t happen,” I said quickly—to him, or to myself? But Kashmir nodded.
“Not with you at the helm.”
Now, I tightened my grip on the wheel, trying to focus again on the far horizon. But I was painfully aware of the distance between me and Kashmir. I wished he would trade places with Blake, who stood behind me on the quarterdeck. But Blake couldn’t handle a sail. He’d only wanted to observe the Navigation and had promised to stay out of the way—a promise he kept for nearly fifteen minutes.
“I’ve been wondering—”
“Of course you have.”
“Well, you can’t present me a puzzle and expect me not to try to solve it!” Blake clasped his hands behind his back. His boots were freshly polished; already he looked more like the dapper young gentleman I’d met strolling through downtown Honolulu. “How does it work, Miss Song?”
“What, exactly?”
“The Navigation! Is it magic?”
“I suppose that’s one theory.”
“And the others?”
“Wormholes. Alternate universes. Mass energy causing closed timelike curves.” At his look, I added, “I had a classical education, Mr. Hart.” He laughed. The sails hummed overhead, waves whispered against the hull, and my father’s words resurfaced from the day he’d taught me: know where you’re going, let go of where you’re from.
“We might be traveling between worlds,” I added then. “Or just visiting a time before magic was replaced with science. But I’ve always just thought of it as . . . as Navigation.”
“Typically, mariners restrict the seas they sail to the usual seven.”
“Can you be sure?” I adjusted my hands on the wheel. “These maps, these stories—they reach us somehow. From somewhere.”
“Are you saying Ker-Ys actually existed?”
“I’m saying it does exist, in some point in time. All stories come from somewhere—from a shared memory or a hope or a history now forgotten. And the peasants Souvestre spoke to definitely believed in it.”
“Souvestre wrote about morgens and mermaids and man-eating wolves, as well. Do you believe in those too?”
“I do.” Unbidden, the memory returned of the map of Tahiti and the creature in the water; I suppressed a shudder. Then I gave him a sidelong look. “But you’re no stranger to the fantastical.”
He rocked a little on his heels, and his hand went once more to his side. How much did he remember about that night in Honolulu, the healing spring, the Hu‘akai Po? Blake’s voice was faraway when he spoke again. “Sounds dangerous.”
I glanced down at Kashmir once more, remembering his words: Trojans and horses. “It might be.”
Why did Crowhurst need my assistance? His letter hadn’t exactly been clear on the details. And on closer study, the map had raised questions of its own. The red lines charting Ker-Ys still swam behind my eyes. The paper itself was just that—paper, not parchment or vellum—and it was crisp and new. Crowhurst must have had an older version—the one he’d used to arrive in Ker-Ys in the first place. What had he found when he’d arrived? More importantly, how had he managed to change it?