George Martin - The Way of the Wizard

“I am most sorry,” the moghul’s wife said. “I was only trying to frighten you away. Those are the bones of every man Every has killed. All his crew members, all the men from the ships caught in his trap designed to bring them here so he might scavenge the things he needed. He liked to pretend that he was trying to save people, then watch them crash—”

She caught her breath in pain.

“Is this place your work or his?” Deborah asked. She opened the coat and examined the gunshot wound. She didn’t say anything of it, but Proctor could read the worry on her face.

“The building was my work, an attempt to protect myself, a place to remember. I formed it from my memories of the Taj Mahal, a tomb built by Shah Jehan for his love of Mumtaz. I made mine in memory of my dear husband, lost to me forever.” She lifted her head, but her skin had begun to look dusty gray. “All the rest, Every created to keep me here. One night forever, the night we landed here, locked in a room outside of time. I taught him, I taught him everything, because I was too weak to let him kill me instead,” she said to Deborah with a sob.

“You only did what you had to do,” Deborah said, stroking her face.

“How do we get away?” Proctor asked, glancing back to the island.

“Just set the ship adrift,” the moghul’s wife answered. “It will want to return to its proper place.”

Proctor ran to the anchor rope. He looked at the means for winding it in, and then decided it was easier to simply cut it loose. He began to chop at it with his tomahawk, but the rope was old and thick and strong.

There was a thump against the side of the ship, and then clawing and scratching.

Proctor chopped harder but the rope refused to part.

One big black paw came over the side of the ship and then another. A panther’s snout followed, its ears laid back.

The moghul’s wife cried out. She spoke rapidly in a different language, probably trying to transform, but whatever she did wasn’t working.

The panther pulled itself onto the deck and shook itself, spraying water everywhere. His chest was heaving, and Proctor could see that he had struggled to swim this far.

It was Every.

Something in the way it stood, something in the ribs showing at its sides — he couldn’t say why, but he knew . This was the source of all those bones piled up on the shipwreck island. Proctor turned and brought down the tomahawk with all his force.

The panther snarled and came at him.

The anchor rope separated and the ship lurched into motion, throwing them all off-balance. As the rope-end slithered across the deck, tethered to the anchor left behind, Proctor said, “Spare not, lengthen thy cords, and strengthen thy stakes.”

The rope slipped through the anchor port and disappeared. The panther squatted, ready to pounce.

With all his focus, Proctor drew his hands in the air as if he were making a knot.

The rope whipped up over the side of the ship, wrapped around the panther’s ankle and tied itself into a knot. The panther lunged at Proctor—

— and came up short.

As the boat started to move, the anchor stayed put, and the panther was dragged across the deck. He snarled and bit at the rope, clawed at it, and then, as the ship began to pick up speed, he transformed. Every was naked, flat on his stomach, sliding toward the water. He spun over, grasping at his ankle, but he was a split second too late. He slammed into the side of the ship, flipped up, and was pulled over.

His hand snapped out to snag the ship’s railing.

“I’ll never let you go,” he shouted. “I’ll never let you go!”

The railing snapped.

Proctor ran to the edge of the ship. Every was dragged under screaming, water flooding into his mouth, and then dark water and silence swallowed him.

“The ship is moving,” Deborah said quietly to the moghul’s wife.

She nodded understanding. “Maraja al-bahrayni yaltaqiayni,” she said.

Deborah wrapped her hands around the other woman’s. “Here, draw on my power.”

“Maraja al-bahrayni yaltaqiayni,” she repeated, the words coming with longer pauses between them. “Do you understand? The two seas flow freely so they meet together.”

“I understand,” Deborah said.

Proctor watched. This is what Deborah did well, forming a circle and sharing power with another. Above them, the stars and the moon faded. The sky grew light. For Proctor it was like seeing the transformation from night to dawn to noon, all collapsed into a few seconds. The fog had burned off and it was a clear and sunny day on the ocean. The cries of gulls filled the air, and the smell of saltwater and the sound of waves.

“It’s been so long since I felt sunshine,” the moghul’s wife whispered. She reached up and took the bag from around her neck and handed it to Deborah. “This was to buy my passage home.”

Deborah tried to push it away. “I can’t take that.”

But the woman forced it over Deborah’s head. “I do not think that I will need it now.”

“Don’t say that—”

“I am at peace.” Her voice faltered and the next words were faint. “It is very sweet.”

Deborah squeezed the cords in her fist. “What is your name? We would remember your name.”

But the answer was forever beyond her. Her face turned toward the sun, which bathed it in warm and gentle light.

The ship shuddered beneath their feet and tilted to one side. Proctor looked over and noticed they were low in the water. “Deborah… ”

Deborah was still cradling the other woman in her lap, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Not now,” she said.

“Deborah, the ship is sinking.”

More than sinking. It was coming apart at the seams beneath them. The sides were splitting, the planks in the deck slowly separating. The mast cracked and toppled toward the deck. Proctor wrapped an arm around Deborah and pulled her out of the way. Wood and sail and rigging crashed into the deck just behind them.

“Thank y—” she started to say.

The words were cut off as she slipped out of Proctor’s hand. The deck tilted beneath them as the ship capsized. Proctor slid down the deck toward Deborah, both of them chased by a vast net of tangled wreckage. He had just enough time to take a deep breath before he hit the water. If they didn’t get clear of the wreckage they would be dragged under with it.

His momentum carried him deep, so deep he thought his lungs would burst, but he kicked and pushed his arms and somehow rose again. When his head broke the surface he was gasping for air. He spun in the water, searching for Deborah, and saw her floundering nearby.

He swam to her side. “Here, take hold of me,” he said. “I’ll n—”

The words formed in his mouth, but he had just moments before heard them come from Every’s lips, and he couldn’t say them.

Deborah had no such reservation. “I won’t let go of you,” she said.

With a gladder heart than he’d had a moment before, he pulled them through the waves to a floating mast and they clung to it like shipwreck survivors. A sail appeared in the distance, perhaps even the ship scheduled to rendezvous with them when they had set out that morning with Esek. They would only need to hang on a little while. But Deborah looked despondent.

“We know now there is no British spy ship,” he told her, as they began to shiver in the cold. “And no more ships will disappear in the fog, no more men will die at Every’s hand.”

Deborah nodded reluctantly. Then she let go of the mast with one hand to grab the bag at her throat. “And we have this.”

A thousand uses for that money ran through Proctor’s head in an instant. If nothing else, they could donate it to the war, use it to help the fight for independence.