image [https://i.imgur.com/9JnFmXw.jpg]

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Fig drifted in darkness. She could feel waves rising and falling gently beneath her. There were people here before, weren’t there? Someone spoke to her on the surface of a dark ocean, though she couldn’t recall what they’d said. Perhaps it was just her mind failing to form a clear distinction between memory and dream. Either way, she was alone now.

Light intruded on her solitude, bringing with it an uncomfortable sense of clarification. The blurred edges of her perception became sharper. Senses returned slowly; sounds, smells, the pain in her body, and a red glow that surrounded her. She rose reluctantly towards the source of the light, wishing instead to retreat back into darkness and continue her rest, but it burned into her, demanding she wake and face the world.

Fig groaned and opened her eyes, blinking through harsh sunlight. On instinct, she tried to lift her right hand to shade her face. The moment those muscles tensed, blazing agony erupted from her right wrist all the way up to her shoulder. She yelped, and flinched, but that motion set off more alarm bells from the injuries all over her body. With difficulty, Fig forced herself not to move as fatigue and newly stoked waves of pain washed through her. The agonising onslaught slowly settled to a bearable level as she controlled her breathing.

Groggily, Fig waited for her vision to adjust to the light, and at last she gingerly tilted her head to take in her surroundings.

She wasn’t in Vishrac-Uramis, nor the Floating Chest; that much was clear.

The wooden room around her was tiny; a ship’s cabin, she thought. She was the sole occupant, propped up with pillows and a bedsheet in a low, narrow bunk. There was a side table and stool just to the left. Loops of rope and rolled canvas dangled from hooks along one wall, and the door was closed, giving her privacy for now.

With a sigh of relief, Fig saw that someone had propped Whisper beside her bed, along with a bundle of her scant belongings. She felt more secure with the enchanted sword nearby, even if she couldn’t use it right now.

An open porthole in the far wall, part of the hull of the ship, shone with the light that had roused her from slumber. The circular sunbeam must have crept across the room with the blooming dawn, until it glared directly on her pillow and woke her.

Vandrin really is the most inconsiderate Aspect, always waking people up before they're good and ready.

Outside she could hear the distant bustle of dockworkers pierced by harsh seagull cries. Water lapped against the hull, rocking the ship very gently. The air coming through the porthole was rich with the scents of seaweed and smoke, and a fresh vegetal aroma that spoke of morning dew rising off nearby grass and trees in the day’s first light.

Fig was undressed under the thin bedsheet. Her wounds seemed to have been cleaned and treated; fresh bandages were tied around her, covering the lacerations on her head, arms, stomach, ribs, and shoulder. A wooden splint immobilised the shattered sword-arm at her right side. Her heart sank as she looked down at it; the limb was swollen and discoloured; no wonder she couldn’t even move it.

She remembered the Ragon'ta Leader's hard skull smashing into her side, catching her completely off guard. The terror was still visceral in her mind, like a bitter taste that stuck on the tongue and wouldn't fade. The crushing impact had been followed by a moment of shock as her brain struggled to comprehend the fact that her arm had turned to a useless sack of bone shards.

She should have died. Four Ragon'ta hunters, all trying to kill her in the dark, while she had a concussion and broken ribs. She hadn't been thinking straight. She made so many mistakes in the fight, got cocky with Whisper's power. If Draad could have seen how much she'd fucked it up, he would agree. She should be dead.

Stop wallowing, Fig. You're pissing me off. Yes, the odds were against us, but we pulled through. We're alive.

‘It seems that way,’ she tried to croak, only then realising how dry her throat was. She could hardly make a sound.

A jug of water and an earthenware mug sat beside each other on the nearby side table. She reached out with her uninjured hand, but her grip was weak and uncoordinated; she fumbled with the handle and knocked the jug to the floor where it cracked loudly, spilling its contents across the planks.

Footsteps approached from outside the room.

A lean and balding old man opened the door, wiping his hands clean on a rag as he entered. He wore an unbuttoned green shirt that exposed a scarred chest, and had an assortment of tools and knives tucked into the thick black belt that held up his worn sailors' britches.

She recognised the old sailor. He was one of Mirabelle the Black’s crew; a mage turned pirate named Grisson.

The fringes of Grisson’s grey beard were tied into braids; they shook and dangled as he gave her a warm smile that crinkled his eyes, and said, ‘Thank the powers you’re finally awake! You must be thirsty. Don’t worry; I’ll get more water, just give me a second.’

He took the rag and cleaned up the broken jug.

Fig watched him, too parched to speak, but awash with relief. His presence was the last puzzle piece Fig needed to confirm her location. She was aboard The Rogue Wave, Mirabelle’s flagship, which meant Rick had managed to teleport them to Saltcrust.

Grisson left the room and came back a few minutes later with a new jug. He sat at the chair beside her bed and helped raise her head so she could drink.

‘Slowly,’ he cautioned her, ‘Just sip it, there you go.’

The water was a soothing elixir to her dry throat. It was cool and crisp, and tasted faintly of sharp lemon, which she remembered the pirates adding to their cups to improve the taste and keep their crew from getting ill on long voyages.

When Fig had drunk her fill, Grisson cleaned his hands, then methodically and impersonally checked her bandages. He unbound the wound below her ribcage to change its dressing. Fig craned her head up to catch a glimpse of the exposed slash the Ragon’ta Leader had given her just before she slew it with her cutlass.

Three rows of neat stitches ran from the centre of her diaphragm to just above her left hip, following the path the Leader’s claws had carved in that final strike. By all rights, the blow should have ended her, from the blood loss alone.

Instead, the wound looked surprisingly far along in the healing process; flesh had knit together around the stitches, and the angry purple and green bruising across her abdomen was already fading.

‘How long have I been asleep?’ Fig managed to whisper.

‘It’s been two days since your friends flashed onto the docks and we dragged you in here,’ Grissom said, as he cleaned the area around the cut and drew a fresh length of cloth to re-dress it, ‘Our healers weren’t sure you’d make it, even after they stopped the internal bleeding. Magical healing can be traumatic for the body, especially when the patient is already so weak. I’ve never seen someone pull through after being cut up like you were, let alone after losing so much blood, but you just wouldn’t quit.’

‘Is Rick ok?’ she asked, remembering the head wound he’d sustained in their first fight with the Ragon’ta. He must have recovered enough to cast the teleportation ritual but she had no clear memory of that, just broken images from her delirious state that she was struggling to piece together.

‘The burnt one? He’s fine, a bit rattled and bruised but we patched him up. He’s been by your bedside for the past day or so, but he went to get some rest a few hours before you woke up.’

Fig let out a breath and rested back onto her pillow. She couldn’t believe they made it. Rick was ok. Dorian had come through after all and managed to get the kid to safety, and then they’d saved her life by transporting her to Saltcrust before she bled out.

‘Thank you for looking after me,’ she mumbled to Grisson as he finished tying a knot in the bandages around her abdomen.

‘That’s alright, Fig’ he said, and straightened up, ‘You’re healing well from the look of things. With the magic to speed things along, we’ll have you back on your feet in a day or two with some impressive new scars to show off.’

‘Lucky me,’ she said. Her eyes were getting heavy and sleep threatened to claim her once more.

Grisson brought a fresh jug of water and drew a shade over the porthole, dimming the room slightly and getting the sun out of Fig's eyes.

‘The healers will return for another session this afternoon,’ he told her, ‘and Mirabelle will also want to speak to you later. Get some rest whi–’

Fig was asleep before he finished the sentence.

She dozed in and out of consciousness for a few hours, until a pair of divine healers arrived and roused her for the next healing session.

One wore pale robes with green embroidered symbols, marking her out as a follower of Zaffir, the Face of Life; the other was more plainly dressed in a casual brown tunic, but he bore an amulet with the crest of Surmas, the Face of Peace.

They spoke softly to her, preparing her for the experience that would follow, and described the divine rite that would focus a portion of their patron Aspects’ power on Fig.

'We're going to push the healing further than we could when you were unconscious, and try to get these wounds properly closed. It'll be unpleasant, but if you can endure it you'll be much further along the path to recovery,' the priest of Surmas said.

'Lets get started then,' Fig said, and placed her teeth around a strap of leather the priest produced from his packs.

Warmth and soft light filled the small cabin as the priestess of Zaffir brought power to heal her wounds, while the priest held her hand and spoke soft encouragement to sooth her discomfort.

Fig was grateful to them, but receiving magical healing while fully aware was one of the most disconcerting things she had ever experienced.

It felt like someone was violently changing the shape of her very being. Whatever ethereal essence connected her to her own body, was interfered with at a fundamental level. Fig groaned and bit down on the leather.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

She felt like warm wax being squeezed and moulded. She hyperventilated, unable to stop trembling at the horribly invasive sensation.

The priest of Surmas laid a damp cloth across her forehead.

‘I feel your pain, child. Try to relax and let the healing work. It’s quicker that way.’

What does he think we’re doing?

'Just keep going, I can take it,' Fig gasped around the strap, pressing her head back into the pillow.

As the invasive contact with her ethereal being continued, it was as if Fig’s natural healing had accelerated a hundredfold; the bones in her shattered arm shifted and fused themselves together beneath the skin; wounds all over her body pinched themselves closed; her skin writhing and tightening unnervingly as it re-sealed itself, and her widespread bruising faded from violent purple to a more subdued green and yellow.

At last, the priests stopped and Fig went limp. She was so light headed and fatigued from the process that she could only mumble thanks as they bowed and left, returning her to Grisson’s care.

She’d drenched the bedsheets with sweat; Grisson changed the bedding and helped her drink some more before she passed out again.

When she finally awoke in the evening, it was to the smell of pipe-smoke and the soft song of cicadas drifting from the porthole.

Mirabelle the Black lounged on the stool at Fig’s bedside, leaning back against the hull of the ship with her boots propped on a box. Monikered “the Black” for her midnight skin like the darkest polished jet, the Mardin pirate queen was smoking with her eyes closed. She blew rings that twirled and trailed in the air like jellyfish in a rough tide, while her fingers absentmindedly played with the twisted ends of her long braided black hair.

Fig found she had recovered some strength since the healing, and her wounds didn’t hinder her too much as she sat up in bed.

Mirabelle opened her eyes, green like a forest canopy at dusk, and gave Fig a satisfied smile.

‘Well you look like death,’ she said, blowing plumes of smoke out of her nose.

‘Who’s fault is that?’ Fig groaned, trying to swing her legs off the edge of the bunk without jostling her remaining wounds too badly.

‘Mine I suppose,’ Mirabelle grinned, ‘I can’t believe you pulled it off.’

‘Why send me into the jungle if you didn’t think I could finish the job?’ Fig growled, reaching for the water with a steadier hand than she could have mustered in the morning.

‘Fig, you lost me a lot of money and some vital shipments from my friends in the North. You understand the nature of my authority here better than most; I had to make an example. Your punishment wouldn't be much of a warning to others if it wasn’t a real challenge,’ Mirabelle said, tapping the spent ash from her pipe, ‘Thanks for returning drenched in your own blood, by the way. It was quite the spectacle, and it definitely drove the “don’t fuck with Mirabelle” message home. I couldn’t have planned it better.’

She saw Fig’s scowl and chuckled the husky laugh of a chainsmoker, ‘Ok, ok. I’m sorry for everything you went through. You can rest safe in the knowledge that I've cleared your debt from my books; I think you earned it.’

‘No shit,’ Fig grumbled, ‘Did Rick hand over the Floating Chest?’

‘He did. Which I think merits a toast to your success!’ Mirabelle uncorked a small flask and offered Fig a swig, which she accepted and downed with a grimace, enjoying the warmth and fuzz that immediately bloomed in her throat.

Mirabelle was in as good a mood as Fig had ever seen her, and it was a huge relief to hear that her debt was settled. The unconscious part of Fig that had been carrying the weight of that obligation was finally able to rest. She felt lighter than she had in weeks, and suddenly very hungry.

‘I’m starving,’ Fig said, ‘Any chance I can get some food?’

Mirabelle nodded and called down the hallway. Shortly, a sailor delivered a bowl of stew and some sliced fruit directly to Fig’s bed.

She ate slowly, letting her body adjust to the influx of nutrition after several days with an empty stomach, while Mirabelle drew a pouch of tobacco and packed a new charge into her pipe.

‘I need to know, is Slimy Lez dead?’ Mirabelle finally asked, as Fig set half the stew aside for later, ‘Silkworm hasn’t been able to determine his location, but I want to hear it directly from you.’

‘As far as I know, yes,’ Fig said, clenching and unclenching her sword-hand. The bones were set and fused back together but the splint remained. Her whole right arm felt like it could snap again very easily, so she didn’t plan on stressing it any time soon.

‘Rick conjured up a flood and washed Lez away, dissolved him down to nothing,’ she said, then continued in a sharp tone, ‘it also washed away his entire slime family, you know, the one Silkworm didn’t warn me about.’

‘She doesn’t see everything perfectly,’ Mirabelle responded, waving her hand, ‘anyway, you made a useful new mage friend and figured it out. That’s what I like about you, Fig. You don’t back down from a challenge, you rise to meet it.’

‘Yeah, and look what it got me,’ Fig said, gesturing to her bandages and arm hanging in its splint.

‘Let’s focus on the positives,’ Mirabelle inclined her head and made a conciliatory gesture, ‘You’re alive and I’m very pleased with you, Fig. You got me something I badly wanted, and you did it quietly, without me having to send a whole crew or divert excess resources to retrieve it.’

‘What makes the Chest so important?’ Fig asked, ‘I mean… I know it’s valuable as far as enchanted artefacts go, but it doesn’t seem like money is an issue for you.’

‘Money is an issue for everyone,’ Mirabelle said, ‘but you’re right; that’s not why I wanted it…’

The pirate queen paused to light up her pipe with a series of swift puffs, and tucked the tobacco pouch into her pocket.

‘I’ll let you in on the truth about the Chest, Fig. You’ve earned that much from me,’ she said, leaning in close, ‘Malvaris Illisar didn’t create it alone; he had help from the Emperor’s personal researchers, using technology stolen from Garrel. They made something unique, a compact and mobile bunker that can’t be detected with clairvoyance or divination. It made it perfect for hiding the Emperor’s secret projects, before they lost it and couldn’t easily find it again, which is ironic, I suppose.’

‘But that doesn’t make sense,’ Fig said, ‘Silkworm tracked it with clairvoyance.’

‘Silkworm tracked Slimy Lez,’ Mirabelle corrected, ‘He didn’t know about the Chest’s full repertoire of special properties, or that I had a sample of his slime to track him with, so he wasn’t careful enough. We knew he had the Chest, because his signature kept appearing and disappearing, and that let us narrow down his location to the old temple, where you recovered it for me.’

‘I’m guessing you have uses for a portable space that’s hidden from magical detection?’ Fig asked.

‘Oh yes,’ Mirabelle smiled with a wicked glint in her eye, ‘but I’ll keep my cards close to my chest on that count. Suffice to say that the Dynasty is getting more desperate every year, and more dangerous as a result. It’s only a matter of time before they attack Saltcrust in full force.’

‘At which point I plan to be long gone,’ Fig said.

‘Is there really no way I can change your mind about that?’ Mirabelle asked.

Fig sighed and shook her head, ‘We’ve been through this before. I can fight but I’m not a soldier, and I’m not going to stick around while you antagonise the Dynasty into a war.’

‘You’re going to get caught up in it one way or another, Fig,' Mirabelle said, waving her hands as she argued, ‘The war won’t just be here on the oceans, and not just between the Dynasty and me; it’s going to swallow up the entire continent. I’m trying to protect my people and make sure we come out the other side of it in one piece; the Dynasty is as good as finished, but they’re going to thrash around and take some ugly swings at us as they collapse. This is about shaping the world that comes after. You could be a part of that, here in my court.’

‘Save your breath, Mirabelle. As I recall, you were quite happy to send me to an almost certain death the last time we spoke,’ Fig said, rubbing her brow, ‘I happen to agree with what you’re saying about the Dynasty, but that doesn’t change my decision. I’m leaving Saltcrust.’

They sat in charged silence for a minute, Mirabelle simmering with disappointment and smoking moodily, Fig leaning against the wall and nervously fiddling with her bandages.

Mirabelle eventually spread her arms wide with exasperation, ‘Fine! If that truly is your final decision, I won’t stop you.’

‘Thank you,’ Fig said, breathing a sigh of relief.

‘To be clear, I think you’re an idiot, but if we have to part, I’d rather it was on good terms,’ Mirabelle grumbled, ‘Do you even have any idea what you’re going to do next?’

‘I told Rick I’d sort him out for his onward travel,’ Fig responded, ‘after that… I’m not sure. I need a change. I might try heading back to the Heartland, but I don’t know if there’s anything waiting for me there after five years.’

‘So what I’m hearing is that you have absolutely no idea what you’re doing, and no plans, but you’re turning me down anyway,’ Mirabelle said, crossing her arms and arching an eyebrow.

‘That’s the long and short of it,’ Fig replied.

‘Well that’s just typical,’ Mirabelle muttered. She tapped her heels on the deck and screwed up her nose, contemplating.

‘I have a proposition,’ she said, ‘Not an attempt to keep you here, but something you can do to help me on your way out, paid well, of course.’

‘I’m all ears,’ Fig said.

‘In a couple of days, I’ll be heading to Loverlock in disguise for the Lovers’ Festival,’ Mirabelle said, ‘I have some business to attend there and some people I very much need to meet face to face.’

‘Ok,’ Fig said, ‘How does this concern me?’

‘I’d like you to accompany me as my personal bodyguard, just for the duration of the Lovers’ Festival. In return, I’ll give you a nice payout, enough money to go wherever you want and get started with a new life. You keep me safe, and when we’re done at the Festival I can drop you off in Demerris where you can catch a ship to wherever you like, or you can stay in Loverlock and you’ll be a short ride over the mountains to Trent and the Heartland.’

Mirabelle sat back and watched Fig as the duelist considered.

‘That’s actually tempting,' Fig said, 'but I made a promise to help Rick find passage to his next destination. I think he’s heading to the Eire Coast.’

Mirabelle scoffed, ‘I’ll pray for him then. Nobody comes back from that blighted place.’

‘Nevertheless, I need to honour my promise to him before I’m free to take another job for you,’ Fig explained.

‘Ugh, you Heartland nobility and your sense of duty! So talk to him about it,’ Mirabelle said, rising to her feet, ‘He’s been waiting outside for the past hour or so. See what he wants to do and get back to me. I can always help him find a ship heading north, perhaps even one with a captain crazy enough to drop him off along the Eire Coast, I don’t see that it has to derail any of our arrangements.’

‘I’ll see what he says and make a decision,’ Fig assured her, ‘but I can’t promise it’ll be a yes.’

‘Not even if I say you owe me for three days’ medical treatment?’ Mirabelle raised an eyebrow at Fig and rubbed her fingers together, ‘Divine healing doesn’t come cheap.’

Fig’s stomach sank and she glowered back, until Mirabelle burst out laughing.

‘I’m joking! That was a joke. Why does everyone have to be so fucking serious all the time?’

She shook her head and opened the door.

‘Mirabelle, ‘Fig called, just as the pirate queen was about to leave.

Mirabelle turned, one brow raised.

‘Thank you, for saving my life, and for looking out for me these past couple of years.’ Fig bowed her head in deference.

‘You’re just lucky I like you, Fig,’ Mirabelle said. She rapped her knuckles on the doorframe and exited the cabin.

A few moments later, Rick poked his head through the doorway and gave her a nervous wave.

'You look a lot better than the last time I saw you,' he said, hobbling a few steps into the room.

The bandages around his head looked fresher than usual, and the pirates had given him a proper crutch to help him walk.

‘Rick!’ Fig almost yelled with joy at the sight of the young scholar.

She beamed at him as she beckoned him forward, ‘Get in here. You did it, Rick. You got us back to Saltcrust!'

He grinned back, 'And you know what? I did it in one try.'

[End of Chapter 12]