Page 26 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Elara blinked. “I had to.”

He nodded, as though that answer closed the matter. Then, with finality, “Let’s go.” Two strides brought him to her, his hand closing around her arm as he hauled her upright.

Elara dug her heels into the floorboards. “Only if you tell me where—”

“No.”

The word carried a weariness more effective than force.

Elara relented, allowing herself to be led. Once satisfied she would not bolt, he shifted his hold to ease the strain on her wrists and guided her toward the dock, where the other captives had already vanished into the waiting ship.

He did not lead her up the ramp. Instead, he wrenched open a narrow hatch in the ship’s stern and ushered her into a cramped cabin barely wider than her outstretched arms. With detached precision, he retied the rope her panic had loosened.

“I need you to be quiet,” he said, voice low. “Or else I can’t help you.”

“Why are you helping me?” Elara demanded. She did not know whether to be grateful for his restraint or resent him for keeping her apart from the person she loved most.

No response came. He reached into his cloak, withdrew a wrapped bundle, and set it beside her. Then he was gone.

Elara’s world contracted to six planks, the bite of rope, and a seam of light slipping through a flaw in the hull. With a hollow sigh, she lowered herself onto the cold boards and reached for the bundle. Inside lay a loaf of bread and a waterskin.

A sob tore loose before she could stop it.

Every few hours—or centuries; it was impossible to tell—the inner bolt lifted and her captor returned with another bundle of provisions, a thin blanket, or some other necessity. Elara folded herself into a corner each time, looking away, and no longer bothered to ask questions.

Below, the ship rocked. Above, the deck answered with its own unrest: wood creaking, cloth snapping. Sometimes she pressed her face to the slit in the hull, searching for some indication of where they were headed. Usually there was only a black sea. Now and then she caught glimpses of a distant coast and the outline of frost-bitten mountains rushing past in a blur.

Mostly, her mind wandered. She thought of Leonid, and how foolishly she had once watched him from across rooms, wishing she were more charming. More like the prettier girls. She pictured her family’s crowded cottage in Jarovina. Had they even noticed she was gone, or had her absence been swallowed by the noise of living? All she had left behind felt vague and distant now, like a dream slipping away upon the inconvenience of waking.

When the cold hollowed her out completely, she reached for memories of Lorrain: the two of them barefoot, skirts hitched, racing through summer fields until they collapsed in the grass, hands clasped. Then Elara’s throat would tighten, and she would sob until there was nothing left but the ache and the cool touch of a silver ring and violet ribbon between her fingers.

After night traded places with day a few more times, the ship slowed. Elara uncurled herself from the floor and staggered to the hull, taking in what little of the world she could see.

An island rose from the water, its jagged mountains the color of old bones, scored with veins of black rock like scars. Mist hovered, swallowing most ledges in an opaque veil.

Along the only stretch of land low enough to meet the sea, a busy port lined the shore and several large warehouses clustered tight against the rock. From there, narrow paths climbed toward a vast fortress that dominated the terrain. It spiraled up the cliff face in ascending tiers, breaking into towers crowned with domes. Arched causeways bridged the gaps between them, pipes vented low curls of steam into the wind, and scattered windows held a faint violet glow.

Dozens of towering figures with silver hair and violet eyes moved through the port, each more beautiful than the last. They worked with graceful efficiency as cargo shifted, ropes tightened, and the harbor bent to their command.

The ship finally ground to a stop, the gangplank was lowered, and the captives began to disembark. Only there weren’t eleven.

There were hundreds.

They streamed out in orderly lines, then were swallowed by the mist as it carried them toward the fortress climbing the cliffs. They did not run. They did not stumble. They did not so much as make a sound.

“What is this place?” Elara murmured, straining to find Lorrain among the mass.

When both the ship and the docks fell quiet, footsteps approached along the inner cabin wall. The bolt snapped free. Her captor stepped inside, head bent to clear the ceiling, and set down another loaf of bread and a waterskin. Evidently, she was not to be unloaded with the others.

“Where are we? What is happening?” The questions scraped free through frustration and trepidation. “They walk,” she motioned toward the slit, “like sleepwalkers. Why? How?”

He stood very still.

“And why take me but hide me?” Elara pressed, dread coiling in her stomach. She wanted to shake him, to rattle explanations from his lips. “Why don’t you ever answer me?”

Every hard angle of his face seemed to tighten. Then his expression faltered.

“They would have killed you if they had paid attention,” he said at last.