“Fair enough.” She scoots behind me and reaches for my hair to put it in its sleeping braid. We sway a little as the wind picks up and rocks the ship. It’s comforting, like being rocked in a cradle.

“You said you brought two,” I say. “One for each of us.”

Her fingers on my hair still. “Yes. Belén and I . . . He is so handsome. And capable. Quiet and fiery, both at once.” She sighs. “We’ve both changed a lot. He’s scarred too, now. So maybe he won’t mind that I . . . even after everything that happened between us, I thought . . . maybe . . .”

“Just in case,” I say.

“Just in case,” she agrees.

Tonight, I decide not to take the lady’s shroud. But I wrap it carefully in my spare blouse and stash it in my pack. I lie awake a long time, wondering which would be more foolish, to prepare for something that may never happen, or not to prepare for something that might.

Chapter 23

THE waves grow playful. They toss the Aracely about, and I clutch the rail as I descend the stair on my way to the passenger cabin to visit Storm.

I knock, and I hear what might be permission to enter, but I can’t be sure. I open the door anyway.

The scent of stale vomit makes me gag.

“You really need to let some fresh air in here.”

“Go away,” he mutters. He lies on the bottom bunk, one long leg dangling over the side, his arm over his eyes. Footsteps patter across the deck above us. A single fly executes lazy circles around the slop bucket near the head of his bed.

“Maybe you should go up on deck. At least you’d be able to throw up over the side instead of in that bucket.”

The ship tilts on a sudden wave, and he groans.

“I sensed the zafira,” I tell him. “We’re heading toward it now.”

He lurches to a sitting position. “You’re sure?”

“It feels like it’s calling—”

He heaves into the bucket. It hasn’t been dumped in a while, and a bit splashes over the side. I jerk my feet away just in time. “Ugh,” I say. “I could get someone to clean that up.”

He wipes his mouth with a sleeve. “No. It keeps Hector and the captain out of my room. They’ve been sleeping in the hold.”

I’m torn between laughter and disgust.

“You’ll be tested,” he says. “The closer we get, the harder it will be.”

“That’s what I came to talk to you about. You said something to Mara about a gatekeeper.”

He nods. “I did, yes.”

I sigh, exasperated at how he makes me work for every bit of information. “Tell me everything you know about the gatekeeper.”

He lies back down. “Fetch me some water. Throwing up is thirsty work.”

“Information first, water later.”

I catch the faint hint of a smile before he says, “It’s an ancient Invierne legend. The gatekeeper was selected from among the animagi. Only the most powerful applied. There was a contest of sorts, and the winner was sent to watch over and protect the zafira.”

I frown. “You’ve never mentioned any of this before.”

“You never asked. Also, I’m not sure he really exists. But I am certain that my people would have erected some kind of defense around their greatest resource. Why not use the most powerful animagus in our nation to do it? And since the zafira conveys life and power, someone in close proximity could live a very long time.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “But your people have been cut off from the zafira for so long. He’d have to be hundreds of years old.”

“More like thousands.”

I laugh. “Not that old. After God brought humans to this world, it was a long time before we split off into separate nations.”

He gapes at me. “You’re a very stupid girl,” he says.

“What? Why?”

The ship lurches, and he covers his mouth as he gags. I ease away from the bucket before repeating my question. “Why do you think I’m—”

The ship’s bells peal, starting high and faint at the top castle, gaining strength as the other bells pick up the signal. A voice booms down the hallway. “All hands! All hands!”

Crewmen hurry past Storm’s doorway. “I’ll be back!” I say to the Invierno before rushing out after them. Have we been hailed? Have we sighted land already? Has someone gone overboard?

I burst onto the main deck and into blinding daylight. Sailors mill about with tasks I hardly understand. Two scurry up the rigging, daggers in their teeth. Why would we be preparing to cut the sails?

“Elisa!” It’s Hector. He stands at the bottom of the stair leading to the beakhead, gesturing for me to hurry.

I jog across the main deck. He grabs my hand and yanks me up the stairs. Captain Felix is already there, staring southeast. I follow his gaze.

A blue-black cloud bank curls along the horizon, a rolling darkness in an otherwise crystal sky.

“It’s a huge storm,” Hector says. “Maybe even a hurricane. We’ll know more in a few hours.”

The air feels different. Charged. Like it holds its breath.

“It’s too early in the year for hurricanes,” I protest, even as the storm bank flashes, turning the clouds a sickly green. Please, God, not a hurricane.

“By a month at least,” Felix agrees, staring out to sea. A gust of wind lifts his hair from his temples. “And from the wrong direction. In all my years on the water, I’ve never seen one come from the south. It’s unnatural.”

His words chill me. “Can we make for land?” I ask, even as I realize that we’ve been sailing away from the coast. We’d never make it back in time.

He shakes his head. “There’s no port for days. The Aracely has ridden out some rough storms, but a hurricane would swamp us. If we can last long enough, we may be able to harness it, get it to push us onto the reefs. We’d wreck her for sure, but some of us might be able to get to shore.” He skims his hand along the railing, caressing it like a lover. “She’s been a good ship,” he says quietly. “The best ship.”

I squeeze my eyes closed, unable to face his brave resignation. As I do, the zafira lurches into focus, pulling me forward like I’m a fish on the line. I have a sudden urge to dive off the prow and swim in the direction it bids me, straight into the roiling storm.

I open my eyes to find the clouds bearing down on us, already larger and darker than moments ago. And as the rising wind presses my garments against the shape of my body and my Godstone begins to twitch with telltale cold, I decide that Captain Felix is absolutely right. The swelling storm is unnatural.

To no one in particular, I mutter, “Storm said I would be tested.”

Hector raises an eyebrow. “You think God is sending a tempest to test your mettle? Surely he knows you better than that by now.”

I appreciate his attempt at humor, but I can’t bring a smile to my lips. “Not God. The gatekeeper.” The most powerful animagus in the world. Someone who has lived maybe thousands of years. “And Father Nicandro said I would have to prove my determination. He said there would be a test of faith.”

“What exactly are you saying, Your Majesty?” says Felix in a cold voice.

I loose a breath that is nearly a sob. It’s one thing to be God’s chosen, to be put in danger at every turn, made to fulfill some nebulous destiny. It’s another thing entirely to endanger a ship full of good people to do it.

I do my best to explain, even though I know it won’t be good enough for Felix. “I am the champion, according to Homer’s Afflatus. And I must not waver. I’m sure you’ve heard it? ‘He could not know what awaited at the gates of the enemy, and he was led, like a pig to the slaughter, into the realm of sorcery.’ The passage promises that if the champion stays the course, he will be victorious by the power of God’s righteous right hand.”

Hector pinches the bridge of his nose and groans.

“What?” Felix says, looking back and forth between us. “What am I missing?”

I point toward the storm. “We need to go through that. Straight through. No wavering in our resolve.”

The captain gawks at me. “You can’t be serious.”

Instead of answering, I place my fingertips to the Godstone and allow its warm pulse to comfort me. It’s so familiar. I can’t imagine being without it.

My faith has been greatly shaken in the last year, but not broken. I have this conduit, after all, this constant reminder that someone or something listens to my prayers, grants me strange power in trying circumstances, warns me of danger. So I know to trust where it leads.

Hector turns to Felix and says, “Not two weeks ago, I was hit with an assassin’s arrow.” Hector pulls up his shirt and twists around to reveal a thin white scar just beneath his shoulder blade. It looks like the injury happened years ago. Felix studies it with interest. “The arrowhead nicked my lung,” Hector says before letting the hem drop. “I had to fight through it, so I bled everywhere. By the time I got help, it was too late. I was a dead man.”

Though I know how the story goes, I’m intent on his every word, hoping for a glimpse into his mind.

“Elisa healed me,” Hector says. “With the power of her Godstone. It was sore for a few days”—he curls his arm and straightens it again—“but it’s fine now. Not even a twinge.”

Now he looks at me, dead-on. “She saved my life,” he says. “It took a lot out of her, more than she’ll tell me, but she did it. So if she says we must steer into the storm, I believe her.”

I could almost forget about the storm, about my Godstone, about everything, when he looks at me like this, like I’m the only thing in the world.

Felix says, “You’re asking me to risk more than twenty lives. Not to mention my ship. If we ran aground on the reef, I could at least salvage part of her. Maybe a lot of her. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Majesty, but your country is in shambles. Good work is hard to come by. This ship means life for a lot of families—not just my sailors, but the coopers who make our wine barrels, the seamstress who mends our sails every year, the pig farmer who sells salted meat for our long hauls.”

I tear my eyes from Hector’s with reluctance. “Oh, I know,” I say to Felix. “I know all that and more. There were four riots in Brisadulce during the last month alone, thanks to a tax increase I was maneuvered into. The people are right to be angry. The Wallows is in more desperate condition than ever, mostly because the blue marlin ran so poorly last season. And did you know the output of the tanners’ guild was reduced by thirty-one percent? My fault, you see. I let Basajuan secede, and now we don’t have access to their sheep hides until we work out a trade agreement with Cosmé.” I turn my back on the storm and lean against the railing. Felix regards me with undisguised alarm. Maybe he’s worried I’ll commandeer his ship after all. Maybe I will.

But I’d rather convince him. “Joya d’Arena needs to heal. And we could. We’re in desperate need of timber for rebuilding, for instance. Someone could make a fortune hauling mangrove and cypress from the southern islands. But no one will take on the venture. Because of the recent war, because of the animagus’ threat, and because”—it hurts to say it, but I’m going to anyway—“and because I have been a weak ruler. Everyone is frightened. They’re holed up in their homes, the curtains closed, growing hungrier and more desperate.

“I need the zafira. It’s the only way I know to neutralize the Invierne threat once and for all and consolidate my own power. So while I appreciate the sentiment you feel for your crew and the livelihoods of those connected with the Aracely’s commerce, please understand that I have a whole kingdom on my shoulders. And yes, your ship is worth the risk.”

He sighs, fingering one of the beads in his beard. “You really think we should steer straight into a hurricane.”

“I do.”

“Can you guarantee that no one will be harmed? That God will see us through?”

I shake my head. “I won’t lie to you. There is always a cost. All I can guarantee is that it will be the right thing.”

“It’s insane,” he says, but without vehemence.

“It’s faith,” I say.

He caresses the gunwale with his fingertips. “If we do this, I insist on telling the crew everything, about the zafira, about your Invierno refugee. They should know why we risk so much.”

I hesitate only a moment. “Agreed.”

He bows from the waist. “By your leave, Your Majesty.” And he hurries down to the main deck to speak with his men.

Hector leans forward onto the rail, and we gaze out to sea together, our shoulders not quite brushing. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he says. “You’ll survive this.”

“You will too,” I tell him, and my voice is fierce. “I order you to. I didn’t go to so much trouble to heal you only to let you die.”

He traces a whorled pattern in the wood with his fingertip. “What trouble exactly, Elisa? What happened that day?”

“I . . .” It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him everything, to tell him how I feel. “I wasn’t harmed in any way, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You thought you were going to die to save me, so yes, I’m worried about that.”

I hate keeping something from him. I’ve trusted him with everything, always. But I couldn’t bear it if he didn’t return the sentiment. Or maybe I couldn’t bear it if he did.