Free Scar Felice (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 3) by Tim Stead

mate, was roped to the rail.
    “We have to abandon the ship,” he called. Yan nodded, looked out towards the shore with an appraising eye.
    “We have time,” he replied. “I will go below and check.” He began to undo the ropes, struggling with sea-chilled fingers.
    The movement of the ship changed. It was slight, but both the men sensed it, and a look passed between them. It was the wind. For a moment it was less. The moment became longer and Pelorus was sure that he felt it shifting to the north as it dropped. He put more energy into turning the wheel again, and for the first time in hours he felt the Sea Swift respond, ever so slightly, to the helm’s command. He looked up and saw Yan staring at him.
    “Do we have anything that will carry sail?” he shouted.
    “It was her,” the mate responded, ignoring his question. “It was the girl that stopped the storm. You saw her.”
    “I saw her collapse. I saw nothing else, and the storm hasn’t stopped.” But the wind continued to weaken and back round to the north. “Can we carry sail?” The shore was very close now, and even though the wind was dropping the waves continued to pound the rocks fiercely.
    “We can get a spar up on the foremast,” the mate said.
    “Now, Yan. Do it now.” The masts themselves were unbroken, and even with no sail the wind tugged at them, providing the smallest amount of steerage. The shore was coming no closer, and although the ship still dashed into the sea the water no longer broke so much over the bow. It was beginning to turn with the wind.
    We are going to make it, he thought, allowing himself to believe for the first time. I’ll see Pek again. I’ll see Helena.
    Men scattered about the deck, and he saw the sailor who had saved Felice carrying her across the steps and back down to her cabin. It truth he could not allow himself to think the way Yan did. He had seen what he had seen, but she was just a girl, and this was just a ship, and the storm was just a storm.

6. Pek
    Felice dreamed that the storm was gone, that the ship was saved. She smelled the dry, clean sheets of her bunk on the Sea Swift. She felt the gentle motion of the sea. It was as though the storm had never happened, but it was only a dream. It came and went.
    She felt the sun. There were sounds that she had never heard before. Voices spoke nearby, and their accent was strange. The meaning of their words passed her by. The motion of the ship changed, too, and she felt jostled and jolted. There was a sense of motion, and a face above her, like the sun looking down, but not happy. It spoke words to her, and the tone was friendly, but she understood nothing. New smells came to her, and new sounds. She thought there were horses, but she was puzzled where the horses could have come from on a ship.
    Nothing touched her. There was no heat and no cold, no pain and no pleasure, and yet she could not stay focussed on anything for more than a few seconds. The world slipped out from under her scrutiny like a greased pig at a town fair. She drifted. Sometimes it was night, and sometimes it was day.
    She remembered rain and wind, and it distressed her, she thought the storm had returned. She cried out and voices spoke soothing words. Something cool was laid across her brow and she felt safe again. So time passed.
    She opened her eyes.
    There was light, but no form to it. The world was seen as though through a veil of thin cotton. There was light in one place and shade in another, but no lines between them.
    “The wanderer returns.” The voice that spoke was a woman’s. It was kind, and gentle. It spoke with the familiar Scar accent and she did not feel afraid.
    She turned her head and saw a shape beside her, a shadow that could have been a person.
    “Where am I?” she asked.
    “In bed. You have been travelling the borders of death, but that country could not hold you. Now you are returning to life.”
    “I remember nothing. Who am I?”
    “Scar Felice,” the