Time lost meaning as the She-Wolf simmered in her anger. Curses were tricky things, their structure made complex with the imprint of the caster’s emotions. But every hex had a key, or a thread that if pulled unravelled the whole tapestry. All she had to do was find the weak point in the spell. Too much blood had been spilled without result. Only the deep despair and physical exhaustion of the crew kept them from organizing a mutiny. Defeat sat heavy on the women.
Elisabeth sat on her bunk, her back against the wooden boards of the hull, and banged her head against the hard surface. She ground her teeth and glared at the wall across from her perch. They hadn’t moved an inch, or if they had, it was within the Sargasso. Her thoughts turned to her father—what would he have done? Undoubtedly, the answer was: don’t make choices that draw the ire of powerful foes, don’t get becalmed, and don’t anger your mother. Should’ve thrown you to the sharks and tried for more sons, her father’s words echoed through her thoughts.
“Go back to whichever hell you call home, old man,” she spoke the words aloud, and winced at the rasp of her voice. She heaved herself up from her bunk, made her way to the desk, and rummaged through the drawer to find her bottle of rum. There was a little left at the bottom. She took a small sip, swished it around her mouth, and then swallowed slowly. The harsh alcohol burned in her throat. She pushed the cork back in, and then changed her mind.
“Fuck it,” she said, and gulped the remainder of the liquor. Eight women had died since the haze descended on the Silence. It was eight too many. Any more, and they might not have enough hands to run the ship when they finally escaped from this predicament. With so little food in her system, the rum hit her hard and fast. The slight inebriation relaxed her, and she sat back down in her bunk, back against the hull, limbs loose for at least a short time. Her mind, though fuzzy, still turned over the problem of the Sargasso.
“Need to stop whimpering and do something,” she muttered to herself. She brooded on the nature of the spell that held them captive. Did its progenitor matter? No, only its power. A necromancer’s currency was death, but the sacrifices had only given glimpses of freedom. They hadn’t lifted the miasma. She rolled that thought over and under, chasing the answer to the riddle of the curse. Perhaps if she slaughtered the entire crew, she’d gain enough power to pull herself free, but that was too great a cost. She cared about these women. They trusted her with their lives.
A necromancer’s currency was death. The thought returned, swirling through her mind like a whirlpool, absorbing all else. The responsibility was suffocating. The noise inside her mind left her deafened to solutions. She wished for the quiet of the grave. She wished for respite from her spiraling thoughts. And as she ruminated on the calm comfort of dying, she saw the path to redemption. Death was her currency.
“Captain, I know things are dire, but sacrificing yourself can’t be the solution.” Moira was thumping her hook-hand on the desk, careful not to gouge the wood even in her frustration.
“It’s the only way. I know it in my bones.”
“And what if you’re wrong?” The quartermaster demanded. “What if you go over and the curse doesn’t lift and then we’re stuck here.”
“You know that won’t happen.”
“The crew’ll mutiny if it doesn’t work,” Cressia added in a soft, calm voice.
“It won’t come to that.” Elisabeth met the bodyguard’s gaze and held it. “Trust me.” She shifted the same glare to Moira. “Trust me.”
A small nod from the quartermaster. A huffed sigh and nod from the bodyguard. And it was settled between the three: Elisabeth was the next sacrifice.
At dusk on the twentieth day, Elisabeth stood at the bow, shoulders squared, back straight, in her small clothes---no point in ruining a set of clothes---and covered in runes written in her own blood. A rope wrapped around her waist, another rope around her ankles, a net filled with a handful of cannon balls attached to its other end. A small knife was strapped to each wrist. Cressia was a line of heat against her back. The crew watched, silent and solemn, unable to believe that this death final would set the ship free, but fiercely wishing to feel the breeze and swell of the sea once their captain went into the water. If this attempt didn’t work, all hope was lost. The anticipation of doom rode heavy in the thick air, at war with the sliver of trust that told the women their captain was infallible.
“Are you sure?” the bodyguard whispered in her ear, her veil tickling Elisabeth’s skin as it moved with the other woman’s breath.
“Yes. I’m sure. It’s the only way. I see that now.” A sigh greeted the response.
The former royal assassin shifted her weight, and without further hesitation, she pulled the sharp blade of her favourite knife across Elisbeth’s throat. All she felt was a line of heat, and then a gush of warmth over her chest as her blood spilled, last there was a burst of pain. The sensation of falling rushed through her, a blur of ship in her vision, and then she hit the flat surface of the sea. Salt water stung her eyes, her chapped lips, her slit throat. For a moment, she floated there, barely moving, a pool of red spreading around her body. The net of cannon balls splashed down next to her and swiftly sank into the deep. The rope went taut, and then Elisabeth was pulled under, trailing a plume of crimson. Water flooded into her lungs, she sputtered, her body spasmed. A growing ring of black encroached on her vision as she sank into the depths. One last burst of bubbles left her lips and spiralled up towards the light. But for Elisabeth, all was darkness. Death laid its claim on her.
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Weightless arms floating above her head. Feet weighed down with cannon balls. Elisabeth came into her body and opened her eyes to a bleak, lightless expanse. It was disorienting. The water was so still that her hair hung suspended around her face like a cloud, but she felt its presence rather than seeing it. Reflex made Elisabeth take a breath, and she inhaled salt water, choked, convulsed, tried to breath again, and swiftly drowned.
The second time, re-entering her body was more difficult. The magic that pulled her out of death took longer to return her to life, and would continue to deteriorate with every cycle. The weight of the ocean pressed on her flesh. A horrendous fish swam past her, a bright light hanging over its head, illuminating its face full of fangs and large orb eyes. It watched as she struggled to hold a breath she never took. The need for air was so strong. Escaping to the cold, quiet realm of death felt like a blessing. It was a dangerous feeling, and she pushed it away. She hung suspended in the deep and fought the urge to breathe. Her attention shifted on the way the water felt, on the push and pull of the tides that the curse stymied. Elisabeth let her consciousness flow out of her and into the sea. It remained calm and still, held tightly within the magic that kept the Silence becalmed. She snarled with frustration, took a deep breath of water, let her body spasm, and quietly drowned again.
The third time she clawed her way back into her body, it was painful, her limbs burning with the need for air as soon as she became aware of them again. The process was unpleasant, but the magic came with ease. As she regained consciousness of a world beyond her aching flesh, she knew the curse was broken. A current tugged at her hair, moving strands across her face in tickling undulations. An influx of new water cooled her skin. Small, bioluminescent creatures swirled around her in a vortex. The curse was broken. Relief put a smile onto her face. And then she gulped a lungful of seawater, choked, spasmed, and drowned again before she could free herself from the cannonballs that held her in the deep.
The fourth time she returned to life, she felt her body dragging through water. The rope that was fastened around her waist, was now under her arms. The cannonballs dragged beneath her still, and her body was stretched between the renewed motion of the Silence and the weights. A soft light suffused the water around her now as well, which told her that the crew was attempting to pull her from the depths. She needed to unburden herself and cut free the cannonballs. With the pressure on the ropes, her arms were held in place above her head. She attempted to pull her knees to her chest, but the strain of the attempt forced her body to inhale. Her body protested, she choked, and she drowned before she was able to make any progress in releasing herself from the weights.
Her thoughts were in shambles as she revived again. The water was brighter around her and hurt her salt-stung eyes. Pain was a jolt. She forced her mind to turn over the problem of getting free of the weight tied to her ankles. And then something changed. The line connecting her to the Silence went slack and the cannonballs dragged her down. She needed to act fast. She pulled the knife from her left wrist and pushed down to saw at the rope below her feet. Darkness began to obscure her vision, but she didn’t inhale, keeping water out of her lungs for as long as possible. She was almost through the rope when she couldn’t fight the urge any longer, and inhaled. A spasm shook the knife out of her hand, she felt more than saw the last thread of rope break, and with that she dropped into death, while her body hung suspended, not sinking, not rising, just floating.
The torn rope undulated around her when she came into her body again. She carefully pulled the remaining knife and cut the remaining bit of rope. With a handful of feeble kicks, she propelled herself upward toward the light, and then surrendered to the sea one last time. As she slipped from life, she hoped to awaken on the Silence the next time she found her way back to her flesh.
Elisabeth fell back into her body like a stone into a still pond. Her back arched and she gasped, breath pulling into her lungs hard and fast. Arms entangled her, and panic set in, she squirmed and fought until she was free of them. She landed on the hard surface of the deck, where she laid on her stomach, twitching and coughing. Coughing until she felt her lungs were spilling out of her mouth alongside the copious amounts of water she’d inhaled. She sprawled on the deck hacking and heaving, adding liquid to the puddle that spread around her body. The boards were rough against her skin. Her hair was heavy with sea water and tangled over her face. She thought she saw a sea star clinging to a braid from the corner of her eye.
When she breathed normally, she carefully pushed up onto her hands and knees. Her limbs were still unsteady, her head ached, and her throat was raw. No further assistance appeared, and her sluggish thoughts turned to wishing for a blanket, and her clothes. Someone crouched beside her in unfamiliar boots. Elisabeth froze. They didn’t belong to Cressia or Moira, the only crew members on the Silence who would approach her in her current disarray. Unease rippled through her when she realized she wasn’t on her own ship. She slowly raised her head to look at the man that waited patiently for her to stop puking sea water onto his ship. When she met his gaze, Henry Mortimer smiled a slow, easy smile, and despite her dishevelment and exhaustion, she felt a flush fill her face. Unwelcome heat licked through her belly, tightening her exposed thighs. She hated him at that moment---she was at his mercy and he knew it.
“Welcome aboard the Jester, Captain Wolf.”
