Sisters of Swords and Secrets

May 25

25 May

Beast Slayer

Somewhere in Prism Sound

T:

The loudest sounds in the cabin are the sand in the hourglass and my own heart. The dribble of granules scrapes on my nerves, but Bunt must have moved the glass in here as a gesture of faith that I would return. I'm still shaking and weak, the pen hard to grip. There's blood under my fingernails, Ree, what have I become?

Twenty-three days since I was forced into this position. Twenty-three days since four bodies were wrapped in canvas and tipped over the bulwark. Now, thanks to me, before the Beast Slayer reaches harbor that count may rise to eleven.

So much has happened. I am so scattered and aching, body and soul. If it weren't for your surely frantic state, I wouldn't write at all. Here it is, in black and white: the Beast Slayer was attacked.

You may have noticed from the heading of my letter that we left Time Strait for Prism Sound—the last body of water before Neth Harbor, the waves violet in color. There are no navigable ports on Prism Sound, so named because one of the original explorers praised the beautiful rainbows wreathing the sky ahead of the ship, only to realize too late the rainbows came from spouting sea monsters who attacked and sunk them within the hour, only four of the crew surviving (by sealing themselves in magicked barrels, in case you were wondering).

We've been in deep waters all this time, giving me no opportunity to anchor and truly rest—or investigate. All those grand plans have vanished like smoke in a tornado. Every day after draining myself at the wheel, my Touch would run low and I'd act the fool—sometimes a stoic statue, sometimes a giddy ninny, occasionally weeping gently for no reason, always fizzy to my fingertips from lack of power.

I'd stumble from the bridge, down to the main deck and into the hatch, then through to the captain's cabin where I take my meals (not prepared by me, don't you scold me again, I can barely lift a fork let alone cook). My mercurial moods and obvious failings have not helped my relationship with the crew—who seem alternately afraid of or trying not to laugh at me, and I'm not sure I blame them. No Toucher as weak as I in their right mind would decide to pilot a Nethership.

To top all that, the fever victims took a turn for the worse, the men on the edge of death, so Sawl's quiet support in the galley vanished because of it, making the worst of the crew bolder and urging me into a tactical retreat.

I admit this knowing it will add fuel to your sisterly suspicions, but if it weren't for Trin, I would have—I don't know, dissolved? Gone truly insane? Two days after my last letter, I actually missed my cabin door, halfway to the hold before I stopped in the darkness, disoriented and discouraged.

"Captain?"

I jumped, heart thip-thumping out of fearful instinct. Behind me was a sailor outlined in the faintest light, breaking all my own rules never to be alone with a man onboard. "Trin?"

"Aye. Where are you headed, Captain?"

"I was..." Mouth dry, I merely shook my head, shaking numb fingers.

Wordlessly, Trin turned around, waving toward my cabin. Feeling foolish, I followed him, blinking at his sweat-stained back. It should have been repulsive—heaven knows what the Restin sisters would titter into their gloves, shocked at seeing a man actually sweat—but perhaps they'd have shut up too when they saw Trin's muscled shoulders shifting under his homespun tunic, or the energy in his step and curl in his fair hair.

Yes, Trin is a handsome man, around my age or a little younger, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-four. It's difficult to know. I wouldn't dare ask.

You are no doubt rabid for me to get to the 'zippy stuff' as you said when we were children—the truth is, Trin has a great deal to do with the 'zippy' bits. At least once a day, Trin finds an excuse to escort me to my cabin no matter my state, always moving on ahead when we reach my door as if he had other duties in the hold or in the crew's quarters. Perhaps he does have other duties; yet the way he chats with me of the weather or Solan or the quirks of the crew makes me wonder if Trin is lonely for a peer as well. So many of the sailors have families or have sailed for years. Perhaps it shouldn't puzzle me that Clacey recruited for experience rather than strength given the danger we've faced on one voyage.