But Lochmordra focused only on Trowe. He screeched again, making all the passengers cover their ears with their hands. He let go of the island, and his tentacles flailed in every direction. He was in some kind of frenzy.

Each time he reached for the Keepers, a wall of Runa’s ice shielded the town. And the wood of the trees along the cliffs twisted around the tentacles like shackles. That Lore, Barclay guessed, was Cyril’s. But it was no use. Over and over again, Lochmordra managed to break free of his bindings and strike the wall. It shattered, raining shards into the Sea.

As the Bewlah sailed far from Lochmordra’s sight, all that was left of Trowe was a cloud of smoke in the distance, billowing into the sky.

SIXTEEN

For ten days the people who’d lived on the Isle of Trowe crowded the streets of Munsey, and the apprentices’ lessons were put on hold while they helped the struggling refugees whose homes had been ruined. Barclay and Tadg had been assigned the grueling chore of seaweed fishing, while the others had been tasked with building makeshift houses or weaving new bed linens and clothes.

“This would go a whole lot faster if you actually worked instead of reading,” Tadg said gruffly. Groaning, he leaned on the top of the stake and hoisted a hulk of seaweed out of the ocean, dripping briny water all over the open book on the rowboat’s floor.

“Careful,” Barclay said worriedly. “This book is older than Orla.”

“Nothing’s older than Orla. Now help me with this. I don’t know why you brought a book along, anyway.”

Barclay absentmindedly swirled his wooden stake around the water. Today was his twelfth birthday, and back in Dullshire it had been a tradition of his to spend the day at the library. He didn’t need to celebrate alone this year, but even so, he hadn’t told anyone about it. Happy occasions felt wrong when the Sea was amid a crisis. It wouldn’t be long before Lochmordra destroyed the few habitable islands they had left.

So Barclay was carrying on his tradition, at least in a little way.

“Listen to this, though,” Barclay said, squinting down at the pages. He was nearing the end of the adventure book. “ ‘Though the night sky was at its brightest, Maedigan did not sail to Lochmordra’s home—for then she almost certainly would never have reached it. Instead, she swam below the surface. She brought with her the most beautiful gifts of the Sea, each of them shining silver.’ ”