The Ship Beyond Time (The Girl from Everywhere #2)(84)

“I didn’t come here to amuse you,” I shouted, louder than I had to, but my voice was high and scared in the dark.

“A happy coincidence, then,” he replied.

I gritted my teeth, trying to slow my racing heart. I’d been wasting time with these questions about Trophonius. What did I really need to know? “Is Crowhurst waiting for me by the pools?”

“He’s already fled.”

A stab of disappointment—but perhaps it had been impossible, undoing the very circumstances that had brought me here. “How do I get back to the Mnemosyne?”

“You’re already there.”

I blinked, suddenly very aware of the icy coldness climbing the leg of my trousers. “It’s not above?”

“The pools above are Lethe. It is always easier to forget than to remember.”

He said it simply, and I believed him. I knelt and dipped the canteen into the pool. Full, it was cold and heavy. I slid it back into my pocket, where it matched the weight of the lock. I paused, turning the next question over in my mind, considering whether or not to ask. “Will I save Kashmir?”

“No.”

Everything fell away then, and the air of the cave was not half as cold as the pit of my despair. “Why not?”

“It’s not up to you.”

“Then who?”

“It’s not your fate,” he said. “I cannot tell you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“I don’t care. Though perhaps it’s not the Mnemosyne you want, but the Lethe.”

“I will never forget Kashmir.”

“I know.”

I swore at him. Trophonius was wrong, he had to be. I had not come so far to be foiled—I would find a way, if I had to go down to the treasury and carry Kashmir out myself. Plowing through the water, I returned to dry ground. Where was the mouth of the cave? I could no longer see the light. “How do I get out of here?”

“But . . .” The oracle’s tone changed, and a note of uncertainty vibrated in the cavern. “Won’t you drink?”

“Why should I?”

“Because if you do, you’ll know what will happen.”

“With Kashmir?”

“With everything,” he said, and his voice low and tempting. “You will know what is possible, what is probable, and what only has a passing chance. What might happen, and what should never. If you drink, your eyes will become open. You will emerge from the dark cave, and all that came before will be like shadows on the wall. You will finally see, and you will know everything.”

“Everything?” For a moment, my mind reeled with the prospect of knowledge—of truth, bitter and beautiful. I had chased it for so long. But then I frowned. “Why are you asking whether I’ll drink? Don’t you know the answer?”

“I know the most likely answer, and the least. But I don’t know which you’ll actually give.”

“So Joss was right. There is a chance to change things.” There came no answer—but then again, I had not asked a question. “Did Crowhurst drink?”

When the oracle spoke, I heard the smile in his voice. “What do you think?”

“I think . . .” I swallowed. “I think knowledge takes sacrifice. I already know what I need to.”

He laughed again. “And what is that, little girl?”

“Enough to know better. How do I get out?”

He was silent then, for a long time. “The map.”

I touched my arm; the sleeve still covered the ink. “But I can’t see like you can.”

“I told you. Close your eyes.”

I did, and there she was, my ship, my home, the memory clear in my mind’s eye. My arm itched; the lines of ink seemed to prickle, and then I felt it: moisture on my skin, and the taste of the sea mist over the flavor of honey. The fog was coming.

It was easy to cast aside the cave, for there was nothing there to hold me. The pull of the ship was almost physical; would this be my last time aboard? Once I returned to the Temptation, I wouldn’t have much time—if I was going to go after Kashmir, I’d have to send Cook on to London without me and trust that Slate could find me later in Honolulu.

But either way, I wouldn’t leave Kashmir behind. We had been apart too long already. I was almost eager to face Crowhurst as the mist curdled around me, condensing on my cheeks, curling in my hair, clinging to my clothes. The temperature dropped in the cave, and gooseflesh rose along my arms. I started shivering as the hum of the bees turned into the roar of the ocean, but something was wrong. The fog continued to thicken until it was impossible to breathe, and at first I thought I was falling again, no, tumbling—so cold—not through the air, but through the icy currents of the Iroise.





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


I screamed, or tried to, and water filled my throat. I coughed, convulsing, tossed like a fishing boat in a hurricane. The waves pushed, the current pulled. I struggled toward the surface—or toward the ocean floor? I could not tell up from down, I could no more sense gravity than I could breathe, and any moment I dreaded being dashed against the rocks, if I did not drown first.

And then I did hit something—but not stone. The current was sweeping me along the smooth belly of the ship. I scrabbled for purchase with my raw fingers, but the hull was slick—copper clad. Still, I’d felt the curve of her and knew where the surface lay. I fought the current, kicking upward, but the sea was stronger than I was.