Page 29 of Winter's Fate

They would die if the lightning struck the water. Part of Callum insisted they ought to already be dead, that the lightning should have knocked the rhythm from their hearts. He’d felt the charge of it in the air, the prickle that raised the hairs on the back of his neck before the first strike on the ship’s mast.

Now that they were submerged, the lightning could strike anywhere near them and they would not escape its power. They didn’t need to be hit directly to be killed.

But Callum could do nothing about that. As he struggled to the surface to gasp in a breath, pulling Laena up with him, all he could hope was that the princess knew how to swim. The sky looked wounded, dark as it was with red and purple spots. Even the lightning had been laced with lines of crimson, unnatural as it was beautiful.

Behind the scent of briny sea, the air was thick with the smell of a heart-tithe, burned hair and sulfur smoke so thick that the rain itself might have been made of the stuff.

Perhaps it was. That storm had appeared too quickly to be anything but magic. He didn’t want to imagine the atrocitiesthat would have allowed for magic of this size. Burned homes. Dead family members. The magic would work no other way.

With his ears still ringing from the triple blows, his nostrils stinging from seawater and smoke, he swam as best he could. Logic said he ought to release Laena’s hand to focus on pushing his way through the water, but she seemed as reluctant to let go as he was. A storm like this might well wrench them apart. So he struggled along as best he could, putting a minute’s worth of distance between them and the floundering ship, and then another, until Laena tugged on his hand and he paused, wondering if she was having trouble staying above the waves.

He needn’t have worried about an Etran woman, princess or no. She was treading water easily, keeping her head above the waves though water streamed down her face, the rain forcing her to squint. Her hair was plastered to her head, the sopping curls flat against her neck, and it was a wonder that dress of hers hadn’t dragged her into the depths. But her country was more coast than interior, and if anything, she looked to be the stronger swimmer. With those skirts, she’d have to be.

She was pointing back toward the ship with her free hand.

He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but he could guess. She wanted to return, to help the others. It was too dark to see if there were others in the water. The beating rain nearly obscured the remains of the ship behind a curtain of gray. If they could barely make out the ship at this distance, he didn’t know how they could hope to see something as small as a person.

Even if they could be certain others had survived, it would be foolish to return. Callum’s men would not thank him for risking Laena’s life in an attempt to save them. They were trained soldiers, and he hoped to whatever gods might care to listen that they would make it—young Godfrey, the spiller of chickens, and wise Edmun. And Huck and Archer and all the rest.

All he could do now was hope they could swim. And that the lightning would hold off.

“We need to put distance between us and the ship,” he shouted, hoping she could hear—or at least understand—over the slosh of the waves and the howling of the wind. Thunder rumbled above, but no more lightning strikes came. Perhaps the storm, and the heart-tither who’d made it, was moving off.

The waves certainly didn’t seem to think so. The current grabbed at his feet, attempting to snarl him in its clutches, and it took every ounce of energy to kick hard enough to stay afloat. A second’s hesitation, and it would claim him.

Laena nodded reluctantly, and they began swimming again. He couldn’t tell which way they were going—no stars or sun to navigate in this violent soup of a day—but every instinct in his body said to keep moving away from the ship.

A particularly large wave lifted them briefly skyward, then they were plunging into the depths of a valley so deep he felt he ought to brush the sea floor. Down and down, the last shadows of the ship lost behind a wall of waves. It was like being at the center of a whirlpool, the sea rising in every direction, with the barest glimmer of that purple-red sky eyeing them from above.

Perhaps the heart-tither hadn’t moved off after all. Callum craned his neck, attempting to see something, anything, that might indicate who their enemy was, where they were working from. But there was nothing to see. Only water.

Laena shouted his name, and the current wrenched them apart.

The sea swept him under, and up traded places with down as he fought to kick. Salt stung his eyes, which were no good to him in any case, and his lungs already burned with the surprise of the dive; bubbles swirled in every direction, and the waves gave no hint of which way to turn.

But he’d be damned if he gave up now. Callum kicked. His lungs ached, begging him to suck in a fresh breath, yet still hekicked, ignoring the burn. He would hold his breath until he lost consciousness. He would fight the sea with every last morsel of energy he had in him. Which wasn’t much; in a moment, he would lose the battle with his body and draw in seawater. His lungs would fill, and he would sink.

He hoped Laena would have better luck. And Hawk… he hoped Hawk would understand.

Just then, hands closed around his torso and heaved, and as he broke the surface, gasping in a breath that was still half seawater, he coughed and sputtered, but he had breath in his lungs. He was alive.

And Laena was in the water with him once again, her body flush against his back, his head cradled against her shoulder as her hands wrapped around the front of his chest. She’d rescued him. How the demons had she managed that?

“Are you alive?” Her voice sounded muffled behind the water in his ear. But her cheek was nearly flush with his, and he heard her well enough.

“Barely,” he said.

Apparently satisfied, she kicked, moving them both through the water until they reached a piece of wood floating nearby. Some leftover hunk of the ship that had made its way here. She shoved him toward it, only letting go of him to pull herself on top of it. He followed, nearly upsetting the thing twice before he managed to balance his weight. But balance he did, until he lay prone on the board.

His chest was sore, his limbs trembling from the effort of the swim, his lungs still spewing seawater, but he was alive. Miraculously alive.

When he’d coughed enough to expel the majority of the water, he turned to look at her, resting his cheek on the wood so he could see her face. She was obviously just as exhausted. Her face, pale as moonlight, was stark against her curls, drenched and matted against her head.

“How did you learn to swim like that?” he gasped.

“I grew up in Etra,” she said. “We know how to rescue a drowning man.”

“But I’m three times your size.”

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