Hours passed in the dark of the hold. The hammering on the hull slowed but never stopped, and twice they came under the storm’s full bombardment. Hailstones like cannonballs cracked the strakes. Jean-Claude could not help but imagine some Breaker-cursed missile smashing through the hold and splattering him all over the far wall. Yet there was nothing he could do but wedge himself between a bulkhead and a barrel and hang on for the ride.

Isabelle stood on the foredeck of the Saint Asne, willing the ship to go faster, chasing disaster and wondering what she would do when she caught it.

A thin breeze got in under Isabelle’s hood and ruffled the feathers on the back of her neck. She shivered as the zephyr stuck its tongue in her ear and whispered. “Capitaine Isabelle, this be Hailer Dok. You’ll be pleased to know yer friend Jean-Claude has found me.”

Isabelle’s heart soared and she held her breath as if that might help her listen better.

Dok’s whispering wind continued: “We’re aboard the Potencia, about to go through the Bittergale. We rides in the lee of the Grey Runners.”

The wind died and the voice faded. Isabelle strained her hearing against the wind, but there was nothing more to be had. Jean-Claude was still alive, or at least he had been when Dok sent the message. They’d gone through the Bittergale, but what was a Gray Runner? And if they were through, what chance did Isabelle have to catch them? Travers and Hasdrubal had an unimpeded path to the Vault of Ages.

Only Jean-Claude stood in their way.

The wind shifted more to the west the farther north they flew, and above the far horizon rising beyond the curve of the sky, a dark smudge blurred the heavens as if part of creation had been rubbed out. The taste of the air had changed as well. This far from land, all traces of grit and soil had faded, and the coppery tang of the deep sky darkened to bronze on her tongue.

We’re made for the sky, Forenzio said, churning up memories of open air and distant ports, strange and exotic lands. They might have had much in common if only his holds had not been filled with human chattel and his mind with the sort of rot that reduced every human thing to its value in coin. In life, he judged every interaction as a struggle for power. His only joy was in making other people lose.

Forenzio scoffed, You’re no better, grasping for authority wherever you can get it, princess, ambassadress, capitaine. You want power, but you’re afraid of it. You haven’t learned to seize it. You don’t know how to win.