“What’s wrong?” I approach him, touching his elbow. He starts and shakes his head.

“A lot of magic here. None of it friendly.”

“Like, poised against us?” I ask.

“No.” He frowns. “Not yet.”

“Well.” I try a smile in the darkness. “That’s not ominous at all.”

I trot back over to the ropes as the sailors call for help, the hunger straining against my muscles and my common sense in tandem as Lucien lets the reins go, and I rein it back in. The combined strength of the hunger and the nervous sailors is just barely enough. I suddenly feel a warmth behind me, another body, and turn my head to see Lucien pitching in to haul the very end of the rope. I smile, and on the captain’s signal, we heave and twist until the winches clatter in place, and the sails come down entirely. Belowdeck the sailors start to row, wood cutting turquoise water rhythmically.

Finally, through the gloom and the chanting of the rowers, lights start to appear. At first I think it’s the other side of the cliff shelf, but then I realize it’s too white. Too bright to be sunlight diffused all over. A torch? But it’s not a dot of light at all—it’s a line, long and arcing like a rainbow with none of the color. When we get closer I realize it’s built into the rock wall, above an entryway. And below that entryway is a port made of volcanic black rock waiting for us, polished smooth and jutting strong into the lapping ocean water.

The ship pulls gently into one of the many black-rock docks, though it doesn’t seem like rock at all with how sleekly it’s been sanded down. It smacks of glass, and specifically of the raw dark glass in the High Witches’ tower, and I suppress a shudder. These aren’t the witches, I remind myself. These are polymaths. Correction: warrior-polymaths.

The best in the world.

And they’re waiting for us.

A row of figures in silver robes, just…waiting. Hoods up. It’s more than a little intimidating. The captain orders the anchor dropped, and half the sailors are busy lashing rope between the dock and the ship when the first figure steps forward and lowers their hood. It’s a woman, her face thin and lean and yet heavy with two large, gray eyes, like sacks of translucent fog.

The captain looks between her and us, then jerks her head. “Go on. We’ve got no business with them, just their cargo.” She turns to the sailors. “All right, start unloading, boys! The faster we get these damn barrels off the ship, the faster we can go home!”

The sailors scrabble, and the four of us straighten and ready ourselves, Malachite letting the gangplank clap down on the glassy dock. Fione hefts her waterproof book pouch higher, her fingers on the laces gripping white.