-Offering the Gift-
After the encounter with the sulfins Jordan seemed shaken, but even her obvious discomfort with the battle couldn’t hide her eagerness to discover his secret—transporting over a thousand tons into the sky.
The truth? It would take every ounce of the gift, and then a prayer to the Gatekeeper.
The hour or two to arrive underneath Hyasin passed without incident. It rubbed Callan’s pride the wrong way to admit it, but Jordan had successfully gotten them away from the sulfin nest without his help. His gut training to attack and conquer rather than sail through could have gotten them killed or wounded, regardless of his unusual talent with Orenda.
He still didn’t understand what she had done, but he suspected the mythical sunsword had come into play. Had she unsheathed the sword to fight? She hadn’t come to blows with any of the creatures though.
Her passivity secretly grated on him. The most talented sword wielder—probably in all of Ealias—and she had “fought” with nothing more than a coil of rope and a scabbard? They had attended the same academy after all.
With the departure of the sulfins’ impressive sea storm, the darkness had parted to reveal a cool midnight-blue sky pocketed with glints of stars, casting everything in heavy but manageable shadow.
The front mast of The Heightened had been smashed, but the other two held strong, their sails still intact. Jordan stood at his side, constantly searching the dark waters around them for other invisible threats. Ever since she had repelled the sulfins she seemed on edge, as though she were expecting another attack.
Callan could sense Jordan wanted time to think and respected her wishes, only smiling encouragingly in her direction when she glanced his way. If it helped her feel more at ease to scout the Glacian Sea, he would leave her to her task.
During the remaining hour or two of their journey he’d absentmindedly doodled in a crude depiction of a sulfin on the map in the basic location of the attack—for future travels.
He could have taken on the creatures, but at what cost to the ship? Flage would already be livid when he saw the current state of The Heightened. He’d been the one to instruct Callan on its hidden location, after all.
A glance at the compass, and he knew it was time.
“Jordan?” he said softly. She glanced at him and then briefly down at her sheathed sword before descending into the belly of the ship. She only went belowdecks to sleep in the guest quarters he’d given her access to or to chat with him when he threw together meals. For someone who’d grown up at the academy for eight or so years like he had, she seemed desperate to keep as close to the sky as possible, as though a deck or roof between her and the wild world of Ealias would cause her bodily harm.
Honestly, he understood. He’d spent the better part of the past five months in the towers, and Callan had itched to roam the wild paths of the Elisian countryside. Or the massive Glacian Sea.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
He was about to unlock his gift when he hesitated—Jordan had seemed determined to sneak a glance at this last leg of their journey, and he didn’t blame her in the least. If it were him, he would be climbing through one of the port windows or hiding in the shadows of the stairs—anywhere to catch a glimpse.
Leaving the wheel momentarily—he’d stilled the winds in anticipation for their upward climb, and The Heightened sat as still in the sea as a stone monument—he went down into the ship, checking corners and shadows until he reached her door. It was closed, and he heard movement within.
Satisfied, he clambered back up onto the deck and took the wheel once more, taking a deep breath to steel himself.
Time to face the truth—he would either safely transport them into the realms of immortals, or their ship would become a magnificent stack of matches scattered in the deep.
He was hoping to avoid the latter.
The gift was similar and completely foreign to his Orenda. Unlike Orenda, which drew on Callan’s personal strength and training and would fade as his stamina diminished, the gift demanded nothing from him but intense concentration. However, after a certain amount of time and exertion it would disappear, locking itself tightly shut as though it had never existed to begin with.
Callan had experimented with how long he could manipulate the elements before the gift shut itself to him, and he had a decent idea.
Decent idea that could end in a less than decent death.
It had to work. Flage’s promise held him as tightly as the knot Jordan had tied around her waist during the sulfin attack, a knot she’d had to cut off afterward. He would either fulfill his end of the deal, or be severed—promises like this weren’t simply untied.
Enough stalling—he opened his eyes and hands and called the wind. She answered willingly, filling the sails until it looked like the remaining masts would snap. The waves began to churn, frothing as they chased each other, creating a miniature whirlpool. Rain fell, softer than the sulfins’ downpour but just as insistent, bringing the clouds down lower, dark smudges in the heavens.
He delved into the sea with the gift, reaching into the silt and stones that littered the bottom and heaving the water upward like a colossal giant scooping out a dry patch of land in the middle of the ocean.
The deck was quickly soaked by the soaring water, the ripped front sails flapping wildly, snapping against the ruined mast.
Taking a more delicate approach, Callan directed the gift to wring every drop from the clouds above. As the sky and ocean became nothing more than an underwater sheet draped over The Heightened, Callan closed his eyes.
The only direction now was up, and he didn’t need his sight to guide the gift—the waves, growing like approaching shades on a wall; the wind, enveloping the ship like a scabbard; the rain, a curtain masking their almost divine ascension.
At any other moment Callan would have used a mere fraction of the gift to keep himself dry in the midst of the torrent, but every ounce was being wrung out, poured into the sea and sky. And still the ship climbed, living up to its name.
He was the eye of this storm, and all its fierce anger fell like his battle ax, cleaving his power, his prowess in two.
The process became rhythmic, like the different strokes Jordan had drilled into him for hours—scoop from the sea, feed the waves, call down the heavens. Soon it felt like the very foundations of Ealias were being offered to the sky, like he was being offered to the stars.
He kept pulling. Cultivating. Summoning. Demanding. Guiding.
Offering.
Until the gift snapped shut deep within his chest like a vault and he couldn’t help but open his eyes and sink to his knees, his white-knuckled grip on the wheel finally free.
Looming above him like a castle was the lighthouse of Hyasin, its golden light blazing like the sun, the last light he saw before fading into the comfort of the surrounding blackness.