Free Eyes Like Sky And Coal And Moonlight by Cat Rambo Page A

College.” He stared forward, thinking. “Magic is unpredictable in the Lesser Southern Isles. There are artifacts there from other ages, like the Coral Tower and the Speaking Skull. They say anything can happen in the Lesser Southern Isles, that gods are born and remade there. I guess we’ll see.”
    Lucy sighed. “Two weeks.”
    “ Will your family miss you?” Devon asked. Back in the echoing hold, Lucy wondered how she had not understood the departure sounds, the heavy timbers’ creak and sway and the distant shouts and clatter of footsteps.
    “ Two weeks,” she repeated. “No, they won’t. Well, yes, they’ll miss me, perhaps, but they’ll have no idea where to look.”
    “ I am sure that the College will set seeking spells after me,” he said. “It’s just a matter of holding out until this ship stops and the spells have a chance to catch up.”
    “ You’re a wizard—can you send word back about where we’re headed?”
    “ Not without violating my oath and jeopardizing my magic’s source.”
    “ What would happen if you broke your word?”
    He looked away.

    In the morning, they were allowed to stroll the deck. Lucy would have liked to lean on Devon’s arm but as the supposed Pot-King’s son she felt it necessary to exhibit a masculine swagger. She hoped it was more convincing than it felt.
    They exchanged histories. Devon had grown up in the Old Islands, magic-wracked lands populated by scattered tribes. The Pot-King, he said, struggled to recruit as many as he could.
    “ Everyone says they know the secret of his power and everyone says something different,” he said. “But he’s a match for any three sorcerers on the Old Continent.”
    “ Then why isn’t his son a powerful wizard?” Lucy said.
    “ Mages don’t manifest power until they start to come of age,” he said. “You know, when they start getting beards.” He blushed and left the rest unsaid: his squeaky voice and downy cheek showed no trace of manhood.
    Lucy told him about being the youngest, an unexpected and unwanted child trailing after her louder, bolder, braver siblings.
    “ Mouse,” she said. “And Meepling, and Slink, and Little Miss Silent, that’s what they call me.”
    “ I have no brothers and sisters to call me anything,” Devon said. “I envy you.”

    As they approached to the Lesser Southern Isles, the days and nights grew balmier. The cook taught them how to fish and how to throw a weighted hand-net to catch the schools of small fish or shrimp swimming in the wave tops. Whatever they caught showed up in their evening bread and fish stew.
    After dinner they were allowed to listen to the stories of the sailors, who sat passing tobacco pipes, telling tales of kraken and merfolk and great living islands that dove when unwary sailors went ashore and built fires to cook their meals.
    Captain Miryam did not take part in the storytelling. Lucy saw him rarely—a glimpse now and again as he paced the front deck, green eyes gleaming in the evening shadows.

    Two days later, the Captain sent for Lucy again. He unrolled a map and gestured at her to look.
    What she presumed were the Lesser Southern Isles spread across the parchment in coin-shaped irregularities. One blob that aspired to hand-sized sat towards the map’s upper edge. The Captain tapped the space beside it.
    “ This,” he said, “is where we are now.”
    He pointed to a circle halfway down the map. “And here is the Coral Tower.”
    “ Which is?” Lucy asked.
    He snorted. “Your daddy keeps it all close, eh, son?” He stroked his moustache, eying Lucy. “Or are you playing it coy so I’ll underestimate you?” He smiled. “I presume you know the perils of a young girl caught on a pirate ship. They may be all charm and fishing lore while you’re under my wing, but should that…protection be withdrawn, you would find your form more disadvantageous.”
    “ I told you, I can’t lift the spell,” Lucy said.
    He studied her. “Very well.