Page 22 of The War of Four Winters

Caris frowned, her sharp features shadowed beneath her helm. "I know of no such place on our maps."

"And that's why it's served smugglers and those seeking... discretion... for generations." A ghost of a smile crossed Yisra's face. "Some places are better left off official charts."

I swallowed against another wave of nausea as the ship pitched. Magic storms meant someone knew we were coming. Knowledge meant preparation. Preparation meant danger. And yet pressing forward seemed equally treacherous.

"What exactly is this Saltmire?" I asked.

Yisra's laugh was like stones grinding together. "A brackish swamp cove filled with half-drowned shipwrecks and tangled mangroves. The kind of place where ghost stories are born." Her eyes gleamed with something like fondness. "Mist curls over the water at dawn and dusk, thick enough to cut with a knife. Some say creatures lurk beneath the surface, waiting for careless sailors."

"You recommend we shelter in a haunted swamp?" Caris' tone made her opinion clear.

"Better haunted than dead," Yisra countered. "And the stories are just that—stories. Mostly."

My gaze traveled back to the horizon, where dark clouds churned against nature's will. The sea between us and Homeshore had become a killing field. We could brave it and perhaps die or divert to this Saltmire and survive.

"Saltmire it is," I decided. "Send word to the Broken Blades. I want double watches once we arrive."

Caris nodded sharply, clearly relieved we wouldn't be testing ourselves against whatever waited in those unnatural clouds. She moved away to relay orders, leaving me alone with Yisra.

"Wise choice," the captain murmured, already turning the wheel to adjust our course. "The herb helping your stomach any?"

I realized with surprise that the constant churning had indeed subsided to a dull discomfort. "Some," I admitted. "Where did you learn of such remedies?"

"Spent three years sailing the Savarran spice routes in my youth." She barked commands to her crew, who scrambled to adjust sails. "They have medicines for ailments we elves haven't even named yet."

I raised an eyebrow. "I'm not an elf."

Her weathered face creased in what might have been a smile. "Neither am I, Lord Consort. Not fully. My mother was human, from the southern shores." She shrugged, as if this revelation meant nothing. "We're more common than the high lords like to admit, those of us with mixed blood."

The admission surprised me. Captain Yisra had been introduced as one of Ruith's most trusted allies, her loyalty to House Starfall stretching back decades. I'd assumed she was as purely elven as the rest of his inner circle.

"Does Ruith know?"

She laughed, the sound like waves against a rocky shore. "The king knows everything about those who serve him. It's why he values me. I navigate waters others fear to sail—both literal and political." She adjusted our course a few more degrees eastward. "Besides, times are changing. Mixed blood isn't the shame it once was. Not with you standing at his right hand."

The sails snapped tight above us as we changed direction, the wind carrying us away from the gathering storm. Already the air felt different, less charged with that unnatural energy that had set Yisra's instincts on edge.

"How long to Saltmire?"

"Four hours if the wind holds," she replied, her eyes constantly moving between the sails, the horizon, and the dark clouds behind us. "Longer if we're fighting currents."

I nodded and moved to the railing, needing solitude to process what this delay meant for our mission. The sea stretched endlessly in all directions, making me feel small and insignificant despite my titles. In Ostovan, I had always known where I stood, could orient myself by familiar mountains and forests. Out here, there was nothing but shifting water and treacherous sky, changing from one moment to the next with no consistency to anchor the senses.

My fingers found the hilt of my sword, its solid weight the only familiar thing in this alien world of water and sky. I thought of Ruith, of the boys we'd left behind. Already the distance between us felt like a physical ache, a hollowness beneath my ribs that no food or drink could fill.

Time blurred as we sailed eastward. The mysterious herb under my tongue gradually dissolved, leaving a bitter residue that somehow kept the worst of the sickness at bay. I forced myself to eat a small portion of bread and dried meat, knowing I would need strength for whatever awaited us in Saltmire.

The first sign of our approach came when the water changed color, shifting from deep blue to a murky green-brown that seemed to swallow light rather than reflect it. The air grew heavier, thick with moisture and the pungent scent of decay.

"Mangrove forests ahead," Yisra called, her voice carrying across the deck. "Watch for the channel markers!"

I moved to the bow, squinting against the late afternoon light. At first, I saw nothing but an impenetrable wall of twisted trees rising directly from the water, their tangled roots creating a natural barrier. Then, as we drew closer, a narrow opening appeared, barely wider than the ship itself.

Yisra took the wheel personally now, her weathered hands caressing the polished wood with intimate familiarity. "Tight passage," she warned. "Everyone, keep your eyes sharp. The markers will be on our starboard side."

The crew's tension was palpable as we approached the narrow channel. Even the Broken Blades, normally stoic in the face of any danger, gathered at the rails to watch our progress. The silence was broken only by the creak of the ship and the soft lapping of water against the hull.

"There!" A crewman pointed to what looked like a weather-beaten post jutting from the water, topped with what might once have been a lantern. Now it held only broken glass and rusted metal.

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