Free Across the Long Sea by Sarah Remy Page A

It’s an old weather telling. And true more often than not. Tomorrow will be clear skies and safe sailing, no serpents or sting-­fish to trouble our ships.”
    The men and women in the bailey bent a single knee as Lady Selkirk approached the bonfire. Biaz and Brother Josef rose and took three strong men with them into the temple. When they returned, they had his father’s body, wrapped in a sigil-­painted sail, balanced on their shoulders. The Selkirk’s corpse preceded his wife and son to the west gate. As soon as Lady Selkirk passed without, the rest of the keep rose from the scrape of oyster shells and followed.
    Liam wouldn’t lower himself to hold Mal’s hand, but his fingers gripped the edge of his master’s tunic.
    â€œIt got dark fast,” he said. “And the torches aren’t lit. We’ll trip down the steps and break our heads. Shouldn’t you send a light, my lord?”
    â€œNay. Watch.”
    As if on cue Brother Josef began singing the high, thin burial chant reserved for lords of desert and sea and plain. Temple lore, so different from the innate magic of the magus, but nevertheless powerful if done well, and Brother Josef knew his craft.
    The sigils painted on the Selkirk’s burial shroud turned from indigo to star-­pale, and then began to glow, each bright enough to make Mal blink. The priest’s chant grew loud and sweet, and the shroud burned bright, illuminating stairs and sand and wave.
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” Liam whispered. “Is it magic?”
    â€œBook learning,” Mal answered. “The proper words in the proper order, and the sigils and herbs to help.”
    â€œA chicken supper is a chicken supper no matter how it’s cooked,” Liam replied.
    Mal hid a snort behind a cough, and hoped his mam thought it was sorrow and not amusement.
    The progress from keep to beach was slow, measured, no more than two abreast. The strong helped the infirm, and the young steadied old bones. Liam counted the steps under his breath. Jacob crouched unmoving on the boy’s shoulder, either asleep or engrossed. Mal suspected the former.
    When the front of the procession touched sand, it broke in two, spreading a single line north and south along the shore. Mal followed the Selkirk’s corpse to the pier. His mother lingered on the sand, hesitating before the planks. Biaz murmured a word, and the corpse-­bearers paused. The Masterhealer’s song dulled to a low, flat, note, and the burial shroud dimmed to half-­light.
    Liam’s fingers tugged on Mal’s tunic. Mal bent at the waist, and Liam spoke into his ear.
    â€œIs that The Laughing Queen ?” the boy hissed, sounding worried. “They’ve changed her all about, haven’t they, but I recognize her marks.”
    The lad had a good eye for details, but Mal was surprised Liam had noted the change in the near dark.
    â€œThey’ve put up the black sails,” he replied. “And snuffed her lights. She’s not The Laughing Queen tonight. Tonight, she’s the dark barge that comes eventually for every lord of the sea, and carries him out to the deep on the wings of the rising sun.”
    Mal felt Liam shiver.
    â€œGhost ship,” he said in a small voice.
    Mal ruffled the boy’s unruly hair. “It’s just a tradition, lad. An old tradition.”
    â€œI heard you say,” retorted Liam. “I heard you say, to the first mate, that there are ghosts on his ship, vengeful pirates.”
    Mal winced.
    â€œThey’ll not harm the living, lad. They’re caught in their own time and place.”
    â€œStill.” Liam’s shiver turned to a ceaseless shuddering. “I think I’d rather be burnt or planted in the ground, my lord, than ride a ghost ship out the tide.”
    Mal shivered himself, and hugged the boy close, Jacob’s tail feathers rustling against his hand.
    The crew of the black-­sailed