Dyeawan doesn’t swim as much as she pull herself along through the water-filled shaft beyond, her lungs on fire and her entire skull feeling as if it’s expanding from within, threatening to burst. Her eyes register light ahead, and not the ghastly blue luminescence of those damned charged serpent fish. It’s sunlight, rays filtered through the water of the island’s bay. She digs harder and faster against the narrow walls, pulling herself along at a desperate pace. Every piece of her is screaming until she clears the end of the shaft and enters the open depths of the bay, bathed in a sun that seems so near and guides her like a beacon to the bay’s surface.

Her first breath is agony and ecstasy wrestling for control. Several times she drops back below the water and has to flail her exhausted arms to regain her posture above the surface. As the precious air fills her, Dyeawan is able to force a renewed calm over her body that enables her to float atop the water without constantly working her arms. The fire in her muscles and her lungs finally begins to subside and her gasping returns to shallow breathing.

It feels almost better than being back in her bed.

She hears wooden oars lapping gently and rhythmically against the calm surface of the bay. Dyeawan, her arms protesting as vehemently as her lungs did beneath the water just moments ago, turns herself around to watch a rowboat far larger and more pristine than the one she abandoned in the chamber approaching her. She sees Quan’s lanky torso rising high above the boat. He’s happily crewing the oars all by himself, enjoying the afternoon sun. Quan pilots the vessel alongside where Dyeawan is bobbing above the water.

Before she can manage a word aloud, Edger leans over the boat’s stern. He’s shielding himself and Ku from the sun with a silk parasol the rich red of heart’s blood. Small circles of glass that appear to have been painted black are held over his eyes by thin, intricately woven leather straps. Despite everything Dyeawan has just endured, she consciously notices for the first time just how pale the man is; he must not venture outside the Cadre often.

“You are a strong swimmer, little Slider,” he says brightly. “And it surely is a fine day for it, I must say.”

Dyeawan stares up at him, a rage she can’t remember feeling before welling in her guts. It’s surprising, both in its intensity and how good it threatens to make her feel. She’s never truly understood just how integral to her survival it has been, suppressing her darker feelings, never letting the putrid circumstances of her existence overwhelm her, either with sadness or fury.