Page 30 of A Curse of Salt

I was far enough from the crew to catch the echoes of their chatter as they brailed sails and coiled the lines languidly. Like all vessels, Father’s ships had required constant maintenance and I’d never seen his crews sit idle, but it seemed the Blood Rose ran on something more than mortal hands. The pirates spent most of their daylight hours lying about, whittling figurines from wood, playing cards and singing shanties that made my ears burn.

My book lay neglected in my lap as I stared out at the water and listened to their tales from afar. Most were too exaggerated to be true – I hoped, anyway, for the sake of all involved. I was almost jealous of the way they sauntered through each day, rowdy and jostling, always finding something new to fight over.

The waves rolled past, the rhythm of their lapping against the hull soothing me like a lullaby. Deeper ripples swept across the surface and I sat up straighter. Whorls of seawater were transforming into shapes before my eyes, like bodies gliding through the current. I leaned over the side, peering down at the water. There they were again – faces of azure smiled up at me, their human-like features forming in the ripples of the tide. They twined around one another, arching over the surface and disappearing below.

I wondered if these were monsters of some kind, too, like the serpent I’d seen after the battle, or if they were nothing more than water. Wondered if they could be as benign as they appeared or if I was a fool for thinking I could trust anything about this place.

A shout of laughter snatched my attention and I glanced back at the crew. One figure drew my gaze, the wind blowing through his white hair, a smile stretching into the hollows of his cheeks. I watched Mors laugh alongside his crew mates, perplexed as always by his carefree demeanour, his elegant posture and hearty shouts as he argued good-naturedly with his companions.

His gaze met mine and he pulled away from the group, heading up the steps towards me. I glanced back down at the water, but the surface was as flat and still as ever.

‘I was hoping to run into you,’ Mors said, pausing to lean against the railing in front of me.

He held something in his hands and I smiled when I realised what it was. I closed the book in my lap and set it down, my eyes glued to the thick brown pages of the one he extended towards me.

‘I brought you this,’ he said.

I took the book from his leathery grasp, gazing down at its ancient pages, its ridged spine comfortingly heavy as I inspected the cover. Tales of the Sinking Cities, read the title.

‘Aron tells me you like to read.’

I nodded, delighted by how quickly Aron and Mors had found the way to my heart. He’s not the first aboard this ship to give you books, a dark voice reminded me.

‘Thank you,’ I said earnestly, leafing open the first page to find an inscription sprawled out in faded ink. I find these stories bring hope, even when such a thing feels hopeless. I traced my finger over the elegant script, a small smile tugging at my lips.

‘It was a gift from . . . someone I loved,’ Mors said softly. ‘She found it in an ancient library back home. It inspired my love for adventure.’

I peered up at him, trying to picture Mors as a young man, golden hair thrown back from his face as he stood proud at the bow of some ship, determination bared at the unending sea. Had he ever thought he’d end up here?

I hugged the book to my chest. ‘Thank you, really.’

‘I know what it feels like to be lost, lass.’

His words made me pause. I didn’t feel lost so much as . . . adrift.

‘How did you come to be here?’ I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

Mors squinted out over the water: a ghost of that younger man, his eyes and ambitions dimmed. ‘I left King Oren’s court twenty years ago – the night I helped your parents escape. After that, I travelled for many years, searching for something I wasn’t even sure was real.’

I leant closer, his words stirring something wistful within me. ‘Did you find it?’

‘Almost.’

The reluctance in his voice had a heartbeat of its own, pulsing out across the waves; a whisper of whatever he ran from, or towards. Mors glanced down at me and smiled ruefully, and I knew exactly who had stopped him.

‘What was he like back then?’ I asked, trying to picture the Heartless King a decade or two younger – a child – but the image was impossible to conjure.

‘Very much the same.’

I shivered, arms tightening around the book at my chest. Before I could press him for more answers, the old man dipped his head. ‘I’ll leave you to your reading, lass.’ He must’ve taken my frown for disappointment, because he added, ‘I believe I’ll see you at dinner.’

My eyebrows shot up, hope swelling in my chest. Knowing I wouldn’t have to spend another evening alone with the Heartless King was almost as good as Mors’ gift.

As he retreated, I glanced back down at the book in my hands, admiring the image emblazoned on its dark-blue cover. A young boy held a great sword to the sky, a crown nested in his curls. I settled myself back on the railing and leafed open the book, wishing there was something I could do to lift the weight from that little boy’s hands.

That day, I read stories of a forgotten kingdom – palaces of gleaming white marble with twisting, pearl-studded steeples and rooms that rang with the sound of the sea. I closed my eyes, imagining how the wind and tides would’ve cleaved their way into the hearts of those cities and their people. As I traced the worn pages of the book, a memory emerged; a familiar feeling of crumbling parchment beneath my fingertips. A map. One so ancient I couldn’t make out the names scattered across its surface.

I shook my head, trying to smother the seed of hope before it could bloom. No wonder Mors had been drawn to the seas. The stories were entwined with an intoxicating hint of magic. I knew if I wasn’t careful, I, too, might find myself chasing something I’d never find.

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