Now, she only has to trust Orrin.
They’re dragged up the ladder and to the deck, where a plank connects the two ships. “We’re taking these,” Red Knife barks, yanking Dekala along. She elbows him in the side, hard enough that Ruti seethes with satisfaction as he winces. Still, he doesn’t let go of her, and Ruti is pulled along with far less gentleness across the plank and onto the Diri ship.
It’s around the same size as the transport ship, but more worn and angular, the prow curved to a sharp, high point. There are words that Ruti can’t read along the sides of the ship, stained by rust and storm, and the Diri move in the dark through the ship with the swift, subtle movements of ghosts.
“Zahara! Captain!” Red Knife calls, and one of the figures standing at starboard turns. “This girl claims to be royalty of Zidesh.”
The captain strides toward them, and Ruti realizes with surprise that Captain Zahara is a steely-eyed woman. The Diri around her incline their heads, looking up at her with respect. She has the same lightly tanned skin as the other Diri, but her eyes are an unnatural shade of blue-purple, her white hair divided into a dozen braids that whip in the wind. “Royalty,” she echoes in a hard voice, and puts a finger on Dekala’s chin, tipping it up to glare at her with suspicious eyes.
Dekala doesn’t move. Against her better judgment, on the verge of doing something uncharacteristically rash, Ruti says, “Don’t touch her.”
Zahara’s eyes flicker to Ruti, peering at her. “What about this one?”
Red Knife scoffs. “Markless.”
“Markless,” Zahara repeats, and her hand flashes out, quick as a wink, and slaps Red Knife hard across his cheek. “A Markless topside on my ship?” she demands. “Do you wish for the spirits to strike us down?”
Red Knife sputters. Dekala says, “If you wish a generous ransom for me, then both my companion and I must be—”
Zahara laughs, loud and raucous, and the other Diri laugh with her. “You are a captive of the Djevehav,” she says. “A crown jewel of the Diri, devil of the Western Seas. You don’t give us orders, Princess. And your uncle will pay for your life, regardless of your condition or the condition of a Markless.” She raises a hand. “Take them below,” she orders. “I want the Markless out of my sight.”
They’re dragged below unceremoniously as the ship departs, Dekala shoved with nearly as much vigor as Ruti is. “Stop it,” Ruti snaps at the pirate pulling Dekala along. “Stop it. She’s going to have you executed when she gets home.”
“I think not,” Red Knife says smugly. “Prince Torhvin of Rurana values the friendship of the Djevehav. And Zidesh will only be pathetically grateful to have their sole heir back.” He shoves Dekala, and Ruti casts aside the caution that has kept her alive for years and launches herself at him in a fury.
She doesn’t have Dekala’s grace, but she’s spent enough years in the slums to know how to fight. Her fists are everywhere, bruising the Diri as his knife clatters to the floor. Dekala is shouting her name, sounding irritated with her, but Ruti ignores her protests and shoves Red Knife. Her skin burns and she’s terrified, tired of seeing Dekala yanked around and treated like anything but the princess she is.
“Ruti!” Red Knife is down, and Dekala is staring past her in alarm. There are more pirates approaching, some with the flaming torches and others sparking lightning or hurling water from their hands. Ruti spins around, fists up and ready to fight, and Dekala says, “Sing, you idiot!”
She snaps a metal pipe from the bulkhead and hurtles at them with the grace of a stick fighter, and Ruti raises her voice and sings to the spirits. Lightning is deflected as soon as it comes, water splashing over the Diri instead of Ruti or Dekala. Ruti calls to the sea itself, to the wind and the weather and all the powers that converge around the Djevehav, and she feels them answer, hears the howling of the wind on deck from below.
Dekala handles the pipe deftly, slamming it into heads and dodging blows from the Diri. No matter how much Ruti sings, the torches won’t extinguish, but she doesn’t have time to ponder that now. Instead, she sings for the sea and she sings for Dekala, calling upon both to attack the Diri with equal strength.
By the time she’s done, there are six Diri prone on the floor, and the ship is rocking from side to side. “Let’s get out of here,” Ruti says, taking a breath before she sings again. They run too far, miscalculating the way to the ladder, and instead Dekala opens a door and they find a dank room like a prison, a heavy lock on its door and open chains attached to the wall. Ruti blinks at it, feeling a heavy trepidation that comes from the spirits to her with the sight of it.
“Other way,” Dekala says breathlessly, and they stumble topside together, struggling to make it up the ladder as the ship rocks back and forth.
On the deck, there is chaos. Diri run to and fro, pulling at the sails and struggling to stay afloat. Captain Zahara has her hands outstretched to the sea, the waters calming at her command, but Ruti’s magic fights against the Bonded’s power. Ruti sings harder, the boat rocking with it, and Zahara turns to stare at them in horror.
“You,” she says, water spilling from her hands to the deck. “You’re a witch!”
Dekala doesn’t move. Ruti sings, watching storm clouds gather above them. “We will be returned to our ship,” Dekala says, her voice clear. “Or my witch will kill every pirate on this boat.”
“It’s long gone,” another Diri says, staring back frantically into the dark. Ruti sings a little louder, a little faster, and lightning sparks near the edge of the ship.
“Stop!” Zahara holds up a hand. “Stop your witch! We will give you a boat of your own. You can continue unmolested to Zidesh. Just leave my ship!”
Ruti keeps singing. Dekala considers. “We have an agreement,” she says at last, and Ruti lets the music stop.
They’re outfitted with a tiny canoe, small and hardy, and given two oars to push it along. “This is not a large ship,” Zahara tells them as they’re lowered into the canoe. True to her word, they are untouched as they leave, treated with a healthy dose of wariness and grudging respect. “We have little more to offer you.”
Still, rowing is something neither of them has done before, and they’re adrift in the sea for a long time after the Djevehav sails away. “I can try to sing the boat home,” Ruti suggests, a new melody beginning to form in her mind. “Create a current that will lead us toward the north.”
Dekala gives her a curt nod. “Heal yourself first,” she says, and her eyes linger for a moment on Ruti’s cut shirt, the skin just above her breasts still scorched with welts. “We can wait to go home.”
Ruti exhales. She’s been in pain for so long that she’s managed to tune it out, to accept it as a background noise instead of the only thing she can focus on. Now, though, she’s suddenly aware of the burns again. She leans back in the canoe, curling against the side in agony, and sings a choked song of wavering melody—long, sustained notes in a minor key—to heal herself.
It takes some time, quiet and long moments in which Dekala sits in silence and listens to Ruti’s song. When it’s over, Ruti sings again, a chant she’s formed that rises and falls in sharp crescendos and will point the current toward Somanchi. The spirits don’t budge at first, and she can feel their interest in her wavering and growing dark. You ask too much, she feels, rather than hears. Have we not given you enough?
Ruti’s chant falters and hesitates as she casts an eye around the boat for something to offer to the Scaled One for speed and the Horned One for direction. Her eyes fall to the ornate Ruranan bands that Dekala still wears around her neck, and she reaches out wordlessly for them.
Dekala sees the question in her eyes and nods, and Ruti carefully slides her fingers along them, finding the latch at the back of each one and releasing it. The tips of her fingers graze the back of Dekala’s neck, and Dekala shivers. Ruti swallows, pulling off her own bands as well, and raises them in her palms and chants to the spirits again with her hands outstretched.
This time, a gust of wind throws a wave over her hands, washing the bands into the water, and the current shifts to carry them home. Ruti sings in a melisma that flows like the water, and the current pulls them steadily even when her voice weakens and Dekala murmurs, “Take a break. You need to rest, Ruti.”
“We need to—”
“The current is still running,” Dekala says, and Ruti curls up again and lets exhaustion wash over her. Her magic drains her when she asks too much of the spirits, but she so rarely is confronted with that truth that it makes her frustrated to acknowledge it. “We are far enough from shore that there will be no Scaled Ones or Toothed Ones. Rest. We’ve had a long night.”
“Then you should rest too,” Ruti says weakly, a final protest. Dekala doesn’t respond, or if she does, Ruti is asleep before she can hear it.
When she awakens, Dekala is asleep beside her, curled against the opposite side of the canoe. Her striking face glows through the grime of days traveling and at sea, two braids wound over her neck and her hands curled up against her chest. Ruti sits back, struck by her, and her throat closes up as she watches her.
The sun is high in the sky, so it must be midday. Ruti sings for a long time, her voice growing raspy, the canoe moving speedily along and the wind sharp on her face. She swats away large bugs and watches for land. They are deep in the Western Seas now, Ruti hopes. She can’t say for sure. Her throat is hoarse and dry, and she curses her own foolishness at not demanding food or water from the Diri for the trip.
Searching the canoe, she finds a little compartment with flasks of water. She drinks part of one and saves the rest for Dekala.
