A pirate untied Cloud, and Storm squatted beside him on the shingle. They talked in low voices, aware that the enemy was listening to everything.

“Don’t try anything heroic, Cloud. Find Lake and the Wayfarer, tell them what has happened, and get back to Yanlin. I can look after myself.”

“Why didn’t you blast them?” He glared at her, furious, baffled … guilty. “Why did you back down? Why are you always such a coward? I didn’t ask you to save me! Fight them. They are our mortal enemies – that’s the only thing that matters! You can win. I know you can. Kill the Drowned Ones! For Thorn!”

She stared at him, her heart dry, and tried to find words he could understand. The look of betrayal in his eyes cut deep. He would never be able to forgive her for failing to be the sort of hero he believed in. She had not just lost a friend, she had made an enemy. Still she tried: “Sometimes, losing is how you win.”

“Riddles!” He spat the word. “I thought you hated them.”

“I do.” She sighed. “Take Thorn’s boat to Yanlin for me. Put it in his grave.”

“You offer his spirit a toy instead of the vengeance he deserves.” Contempt in his voice, his face.

Storm closed her eyes, feeling tired to the point of sickness. “Just take him the boat, please. Promise?”

“Yes.” Sullen, but Cloud would take Thorn’s boat to Yanlin.

In a few heartbeats, he was gone, bundled into the canoe and shoved out to sea. Storm watched the small red sail flick out of the cove and disappear behind a headland. When it had gone, she turned to face the Drowned Ones.

All her life, she had heard the stories her people told about the sea pirates. Had learned to tell them herself. Drowned Ones were not fully human. They lacked all virtue. Their islands had sunk beneath the sea because the people who lived on them deserved their ill luck.

The stories had taught her that the Drowned Ones were her enemy; that the only path for her people was that of war and vengeance. Against all that – the tales of her Ancestors’ Ancestors’ Ancestors, against the hate that still smouldered in her heart – she had only the words of the Tortoise and the memory of her mother. Storm saw the Fire-witch standing, waiting, fingers twitching, and wondered if it would be enough.

“I’m ready,” she said.

Acknowledgements

Once again, a huge Thank You! to my amazing editor, Kirsty Stansfield, who nudged, guided and kept me on the right path throughout.

Thanks as well to the great team at Nosy Crow.

Continued appreciation goes to my agent, Jenny Savill of Andrew Nurnberg Associates.

My family and friends are old hands at writer-support now: I couldn’t do it without you.

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