Chapter 40
Smurjan's storm-wave towers behind him, taller than the first. Vigolas is on one knee on the black water in front of it.
looking up at it. Not afraid now. Tired, and done.
standing up slowly, water running off his coat.
Deep inside, behind the ribs, something old stirs: the same voice that spoke on the black-sand beach in chapter one, his and not his.
the storm still raised, seeing the green light gathering in Vigolas's eyes.
rising, open, palm out toward the wave. Green lightning crawls up his arm, his throat and his face, brighter than COMPACT ever was.
The second wave, sixty metres of black water, lightning and roaring sea, is wiped from where it stands.
It isn't broken, scattered or knocked down. It is gone: a clean, perfectly smooth hole in the sea, a vast curved absence the shape of a wave, its edges sharp as cut glass. The storm-wind howls into the empty space where it was. The lightning hanging in it has nothing left to strike.
At the centre of the spread, Vigolas stands with his arm out. Smurjan stands frozen, his hand still raised toward a storm that has nothing left to give him. And all around them, the rows of the dead are looking up at the hole, every one.
The sea slowly closes over the hole, but the storm is broken. The wind drops and the rain thins. For the first time, a few stars show through the clouds over the Arena.
THE FIELD IS CHANGED.
THE FIELD NO LONGER FAVOURS.
lowering his arm, swaying. He laughs, a little wildly, and starts to hum, the way you hum after a win, a song he's hummed his whole life.
He stops mid-hum and frowns. Tries again.
the smile fading off his face.
watching him. He knows exactly what this is: a man who has lost a word, a face, a year.
Vigolas looks at his open hand, the one that just erased a mountain of water. The other hand drifts to his throat, where the song used to be.
Lärka stands in front of Kompis at the mast. Mingus is planted between them, barking soundlessly, hackles up.
Lärka steps around the dog, as easily as stepping round a puddle, and lays her pale hand flat on Kompis's chest.
His eyes widen. His mouth opens. No sound.
X-ray style, ghostly: his own heart, ba-dum, ba-dum, slowing under her palm. ba… dum… ba……… dum……
Her face is calm and almost kind, like a nurse's: the face of someone who has never once heard a heartbeat, and has no idea what it is she's quieting.
Rougeina Swaps in and slams into Lärka shoulder-first. Lärka's hand comes off Kompis's chest for a moment, and his heart kicks.
Lärka recovers without a sound and drives two fingers into Rougeina's collarbone. Rougeina's heart slows, and she drops to one knee, gasping silently.
Drekk charges from the wheel with a boarding axe, roaring a battle cry nobody can hear. Lärka feels the deck tremble under his boots and sidesteps; Drekk goes sailing past her into the rail.
still flat on his back, writing furiously in glowing violet letters in the air:
HER HUSH ENDS WHERE SHE CAN'T FEEL. FIND THE EDGE.
Then, smaller: I'VE ONLY WAITED 6 HOURS. GIVE ME MORE.
upside down against the rail, reading it, then glaring at the lazy mage.
slid down the mast to the deck, on his knees, grey-faced. His heart is barely moving. One hand is still on Mingus's back.
(Ba………… dum…………)
pressing his whole body against Kompis, licking his face over and over, whining with no sound.
looking at the dog. He can't feel the heartbeat under his hand, but he can see it: the dog's ribs rising and falling, alive, trying.
Smurjan lowers his hand. Vigolas stands with his hand at his throat. Two men standing on a quiet sea under a few stars.
impatient:
THE MATCH IS NOT DECIDED.
Lärka stands over Kompis, who is on his knees and barely conscious. From the sleeve of her grey coat she draws a thin, silent blade, a stiletto of pale steel that makes no sound leaving its sheath.
lifting. In its polished steel, reflected small and bright, a ghost with a grey moustache sits on the barrel of the rifle lying on the deck beside Kompis, and he is standing up.