That much Icando, the voice in my head whispers wearily, out of the blue, like she’s been there all along.
Who are you?I remember her, from the Landlow Isles, from my time in the drug.I lunge for her and lose her a moment later.She’s lost to me, though now I recall everything about her.The voice that spoke to me after I accepted the so-called dragon magic from my father, that same magic that was meant to spark my own, to wake the power of drakonkin since I was ever so special.Sarcasm isn’t helping, but I embrace it anyway.That’s what I was told, wasn’t it?According to Ustervoth, I’m his heir, the real princess of his fantasy kingdom of dragons and power.
I’m not being fair, and the anger is taking over despite my meditation.Which means I’m again closing my eyes and breathing and retreating back into myself to center.
“Captain said two more days,” someone says.“I’m getting off.Done with this shit.”
“Liar,” the other laughs at him.“Pay’s too good.Who’d rather dig in the dirt?”
“Fuck off,” the other laughs back.
“Rather fuck your sister…” their voices drift away like there’s distance growing between us.
It takes me a moment to realize that I can understand them, a sharp inhale following that, my chin rising before I turn and stare down a dark-eyed man who sits closest to me.Was he the one who shared the food?It doesn’t matter, but I think kindly of him for it.
“Your name,” I say as gently as I can.
His gaze widens.“Somu,” he says in a quiet tenor.
You’re welcome, the voice whispers as though from far away.Hurry, Flame.
***
Chapter Four
The sailor returns after dark with his same burden, the water and food dumped, abandoned for us to share amongst ourselves.While the others seem less terrified, no one makes a move for either before I’ve had my fill of water and take a portion of the dried meat back to my small space to devour.
I watch as best I can, their shadows creeping forward, note the splash of water when each of them drinks, the rustle of the sack when they take their food.There’s no squabbling for extra, no fighting over resources.That surprises me, though in such a small space with so little to share, perhaps some kind of truce has been agreed upon, one I’m unwittingly part of now.
The first time I try to rise, I’m rewarded with cramping so vicious in both of my thighs that I cry out and fall again, rubbing at the deep, spasming tension until they unknot, aching in relief when the agony ends.I don’t try again, though I’m flexing and stretching instead, the inactivity worse for my mind than anything.
It’s another cycle of day turning to night, water and a strip of dry, tough meat barely edible, that I’m able to gain my feet, though I’m forced to crouch, only putting more strain on my already weakened legs.The ceiling is far too low for me to stand tall, a bare bend of my knees forcing me in half with my back pressed to the beams above.The small sailor who delivers our food squats to do so, but he’s clearly shorter than I am.Much shorter.
As much as it hurts to move, it’s a good kind of hurt, the sort that I’m accustomed to, and I add that regimen back into my life along with meditation.
Work the body, work the mind, Mother says to me.Both are weapons you need to hone to be victorious in battle.She’s much more distant than she was before.I must be gaining further mental clarity, too, sad to feel her fade despite the consequences of hanging onto her.Madness isn’t conducive to healing.
She was never a kindness in my life, but I miss her with a fierce aching that matches everything else right now.Clinging to her is a weakness she never allowed.As much as her imagined presence gives me comfort and support, I’d hate for her to see me like this.
For all I know, she can, wherever it is that tough-as-nails old war queens go when they’re finally laid low.I’ll find out myself someday, perhaps.For now, I need to release her to make progress, if not the teachings of hers that will hopefully keep me alive.
That much I will allow moving forward.
It’s clear to me from my weakness but minimal loss of muscle that I’ve been traveling for perhaps a week or ten days, with the illness of my return from the drug’s control taking the bulk of that time from me.When the sun sets yet again, I’ve had enough and gathered sufficient strength to demand more answers.
I’m ready when the sailor returns.
He's just visible in the light of the lantern at the top of the stairs.I wait until he’s setting down the cask of water before I speak.
“I would address your captain,” I say.
The sailor jumps with a squeaking sound that would be hilarious if things weren’t so intensely horrific.As it stands, I snort a little at his reaction, if mostly in derision rather than amusement.
He spins and runs back to the stairs, slamming the hatch shut.
Damn it.Where’s the food sack?
“You should have waited,” a woman’s voice says, her words whining, the very tone a complaint.
