Chapter 29

Jack idly watched Bella draw an elaborate warding circle. The first ring ran along the floor of the round tent. She was in the process of drawing a second ring on the walls in large white symbols. Friday was outside whispering some sort of incantation and walking in counterclockwise circles around the tent. They were moving with practiced efficiency, but to Jack it felt like ages.

She lay in the center of it all on the pile of blankets and furs, exhausted and barely able to move. Her mind was a tangled mess of anxious feelings. She was nude, which didn’t help her discomfort. The witches had painted her from head to toe with symbols while chattering amongst themselves about esoteric principles of magic that made no sense to Jack. Her skin shivered with goosebumps, not from cold but from apprehension.

Quinn knelt next to her, patient and predictable as the tide. His hands held hers. His presence felt like a sturdy anchor keeping her from going adrift in the stormy seas of her mind. It was an odd sensation. Now that she understood what he’d done to her, she knew that he was artificially keeping her heart rate slow and steady.

Thinking was nearly impossible. She couldn’t keep focused long. Everything seemed to inevitably drift back to Will or Shae. Or both. It was maddening. Even though she understood what was happening now, the thoughts and feelings still rose unbidden. Her feelings for Will were already a complicated tangle, and now unbidden feelings for Shae were slowly spreading through them like a sweet-smelling rot.

She hated how pleasant thoughts of Shae were. No matter how much she tried to hate the manipulative pirate queen, her emotions inevitably turned to longing and her thoughts twisted around on themselves trying to find a solution to her predicament that involved making Shae happy.

She was very good at keeping a tight lid on her emotions. She’d been doing it for years. Still, she knew that underneath her mask of control she was a mess of loss, guilt, and regret. The seals on that lid had been slowly cracking since their journey together began, but Shae’s love curse felt like that lid had been ripped off and the contents violently upended. Everything she’d been holding back for years was flooding her mind. If not for Quinn’s calming touch she knew she would be breaking down, but she couldn’t. She was just too tired.

A thought drifted through her mind and she let out a sad laugh in spite of herself. Quinn raised an eyebrow.

“It’s nothing,” Jack said, shaking her head weakly.

“I will listen regardless,” Quinn said gently. “You seem very far away.”

“I don’t mean to be,” Jack said. “It’s this love curse. It keeps dragging my mind to places I don’t want to go.”

Quinn nodded solemnly. “It is my experience that talking can be a way back to yourself.”

Jack let out a small snort. “You are the least talkative person I’ve ever met.”

“We spoke a great deal at first,” Quinn said with a ghost of a smile. “It brought me back to myself. I would gladly return the favor.”

Jack smiled and tears welled in her eyes again. “I don’t deserve you,” she whispered.

“That is not for you to judge,” Quinn said with quiet firmness.

“Is it yours then? Why do you get to be the judge of everything?” Jack said as she blinked back her tears.

“It is my nature,” Quinn said with a small shrug.

Jack let out a weak but exasperated sigh. “You want me to tell you everything in my head? So you can judge me?”

“No. So I can understand. To better help you,” Quinn said earnestly.

Jack raised an eyebrow and waited.

“Judging you is merely a side benefit,” Quinn admitted.

Jack started laughing hard enough that Bella looked over her shoulder. The witch smiled, then went back to her work.

“Fine,” Jack relented. “It’s not like you could judge me harder than I judge myself.”

“That does seem unlikely,” Quinn agreed.

“I was thinking about Will and I’s first adventure,” Jack explained.

“The temple ruins in Malahara,” Quinn said.

“Yes,” Jack said with a nod, a bit surprised that Quinn remembered. “I pulled the wrong lever and got sprayed down with some kind of grease from an ancient machine. We tried to wash it off, but even with soap it was useless. Even after we’d wiped the excess away, water still rolled off my skin like a duck’s back. Taking a bath after we got out of the temple was the oddest sensation. I could feel the heat of the water, but I couldn’t get wet.”

“Curious,” Quinn said. “How does that relate?”

“It’s what this love curse feels like,” Jack explained. “A sort of film in my mind. When I try to submerge myself in the comfort of memories and feelings that I know are real, they don’t ... sink in. And I can feel it spreading. In the bath, the excess lubricant floated on the surface of the water. It looked like rainbows. Everything it touched became like my skin. It repelled the water, and after a while there was no way to reach the water without going through the grease. That’s what thoughts of Shae feel like. They’re all over me, and once I think of something, thoughts of her intermingle. I keep finding myself wondering if Shae would like something, or enjoy hearing a story. I wonder how she could help with things I’m still dealing with, or what I should do differently if she disapproves.”

Quinn slowly nodded his understanding. “That sounds terrifying.”

“No,” she shook her head gently. “In the abstract, yes. I can see why it could cause frightening things to happen, but the actual feeling isn’t scary at all. It’s just odd. Like feeling warm water but not feeling wet. With the grease I was more frightened about what it could be than what it was.”

“How so,” Quinn asked.

“I was afraid because I didn’t know what it would do to me,” Jack explained. “It ended up being fine. That’s what my mind is trying to tell me now. Everything will be fine. That I’m just afraid of what I don’t understand.”

“That’s the enchantment,” Bella said over her shoulder. “It’s giving you incentives to justify accepting it. Fight that.” The witch’s heart clenched. She didn’t want to tell Jack the rest. It wouldn’t help.

“I don’t know how,” Jack said.

“How did you wash the oil away?” Quinn asked.

“I didn’t,” Jack said. “After a week or so the slickness went away on its own. I was worried it would be poisonous, or make my skin fall off or something, but it ended up being mostly harmless.”

“Mostly?’ Quinn asked.

Jack’s face scrunched up in embarrassment. “It made all my hair fall out.”

Amusement crept into Quinn’s eyes. “Unfortunate.”

Jack sighed in exasperation. “Obviously it all grew back. At the time, I thought it might kill me.”

Quinn nodded. “I see the parallels.”

“I love that stuff,” Bella said over her shoulder, hoping to distract Jack from thinking about the enchantment that was slowly overriding her mind.

“You still have some?” Jack asked, surprised.

“A little goes a long way,” Bella said. “I think I have enough to last another year or so, but eventually you’ll have to go get more for me.”

“If there’s still any left,” Jack said. “The explorer’s society has had a research camp there for years now. They’ve probably drained the tank.”

“You found the place,” Bella said with a tisk. “That should give you the right to another jar.”

“We’ll see,” Jack said with a smile.

“I really don’t want to go back to shaving,” Bella said, wrinkling her nose.

“You could just let it grow,” Jack said with a tired shrug. “It’s natural.”

Bella held up the grease pencil she was using to draw on the walls of the tent. “It’s hard to draw sigils on hair.”

“I still find it hard to believe that every witch shaves their entire body,” Jack said wryly.

“Not every,” Bella said. “Only the ones that need to draw on particularly hairy areas. “Not all of them draw like I do either. Tattoos work especially well. I’ve also seen mud, or glue and powder.”

“That sounds even worse where hair is concerned,” Jack said, wrinkling her nose.

“Shallow cuts work as well,” Friday said from outside the tent.

“Lovely,” Jack said dryly.

“We could go with that if you want,” Bella smirked.

“What?” Jack blinked, suddenly feeling a bit more awake. With impressive effort she managed to lift her head a bit off the pillow.

“We aren’t done with you,” Bella said. “There’s still three more sigils to draw to start the ritual. I was going to shave you for one of them, but I suppose Friday could cut you a little.”

Jack looked horrified. “No. Shaving sounds fine.”

Bella and Friday giggled and continued with their preparations.

Jack’s head flopped back to the pillow with a sigh. “I really hate magic.”

Caine walked into the old pirate’s den with his hands in his pockets. His oldest enemy sat hunched at the desk, carefully pulling a thread with tiny tweezers, erecting the mast of a tiny ship inside a bottle.

Old Man Teach looked up with hollow red eyes, pursed his dry lips in a terse, flat expression of loathing, then went back to his boat. “Come back tomorrow,” he rasped.

“Can’t do that,” Caine said.

The Old Man sighed. “I was nearly finished.” He set the bottle down on it’s rack. Inside, the mast fell over.

“You’re never finished,” Caine said dryly.

“There is always more to do,” the Old Man agreed.

“Not anymore,” Caine said.

“For one of us,” the Old Man said as he pushed himself up from his chair. He was tall and broad. Even stooped with age he was still taller than Caine. His arms hung limp at his sides, bony and thin. Once he had been a massive bear of a man, but now there was little left but wide shoulders and lanky bones. He was dressed smartly in black slacks and white shirt beneath a green brocade vest and a matching cravat. He had two gold hoops in one ear and three in the other. His long, white beard was braided in two forks. His equally white hair was loose and surprisingly thick for his age. It fell around his shoulders like a curtain. He sneered at Caine. Most of his teeth were gold now. He’d been a great bear of a man once, barrel chested and strong. Now he looked like a sail without wind. His skin hung sallow against his cheeks and his eyes seemed too small for their sockets.

The Old Man crossed the room in a stiff, lanky stride. He paused in front of the warm fire and pulled a saber off the mantle. He gestured for Caine to take the other and slowly walked away. Caine looked at the sword for a moment. He’d given the pair to Mary and her Old Man on their wedding day. They were Malaharan. Supposedly forged by an Asura smith. Priceless. They’d been lovingly taken care of.

“If you can’t wait for me to finish my ship, I’m not waiting for you to finish gawking,” the Old Man growled. “Let’s get on with it.”

Caine pulled the second blade off the wall. The Old Man pushed open the doors on the other side of his den and walked out onto the balcony. “Had to wait until I got old, you godsdamned coward? You couldn’t have done this twenty years ago?”

Caine stepped out onto the balcony into the brisk night air. Only the bright moon lit the terrace. The wind off the ocean roared in his ears. “I thought you could change.”

“I have,” the Old Man muttered darkly. “I was full of the dreams you gave me. I thought I could rebuild what you destroyed.” As he spoke he unbuttoned his vest with one hand and tossed it aside, then shoved the priceless blade into the sash at his waist. He untied his cravat from his neck and used it to tie back his flowing hair.

Caine rested his borrowed blade on his shoulder. “I really haven’t missed your speeches.”

“Tough shit,” the old man growled. “You want to kill me, you get to listen to me first.” He drew his sword again. “It took me a long time to figure out that nothing can be built on shattered ground.” He stalked back and forth like an angry cat. “Can’t grow from poisoned roots! We used to have homes! Families! All the roads were ours! Now, we have nothing but sand and water and memories.”

“Did you practice this?” Caine asked dryly.

“Yes!” the Old Man roared. “I have had a lifetime to imagine what I would say to you, and for once in your miserable life you’re going to listen.” He lunged forward in a perfectly trained balestra. He wasn’t as strong or as fast as he once was, but he’d clearly kept up his practice and his angry words didn’t erode his control at all.

“Fine,” Caine sighed, flicking his sword against the sudden attack and circling for room. “Go ahead.”

“I have nothing because of you!” the Old Man snarled. His blade flicked in a slash that inverted at the last second as the Old Man’s hand pronated. The curve of the saber abruptly switched angles causing the point to reach around Caine’s defense.

“You live in a royal mansion on an island that you’ve controlled for fifty years,” Caine said dryly as he let his parry glide along his foe’s blade to short the reach of the point. It tapped his shoulder for just an instant. He barely felt it and didn’t bother to look. “You were a circus act. Now you’re a king.”

“My kingdom is salt and wind and bones,” the Old Man glared. His sword continued to ride Caine’s. They circled blades in a looping glissade and stepped in unison, vying for the center. “When I am gone, everything I’ve built will vanish. Half a century spent trying to rebuild what you shattered, and my legacy is already crumbling. The island I claimed for my family has already been overtaken by the butcher’s church. My sons squabble for a throne that is already lost. My wife still pines for you.”

Caine rolled his eyes and beat the Old Man’s saber to the side. “Your wife has never pined for anyone in her entire life.”

“She still believes your lies,” the Old Man growled as he settled into a new stance. “I see the way she looks at me.”

Caine didn’t bother. He held his sword loosely in front of him with no technique to speak of and finally glanced down at his shoulder. His old tunic had a new hole and was soaking up blood. It was a bit deeper than he thought. The Malaharan steel was still razor sharp. “Well, she always was smarter than you,” he shrugged. “You should have let her run things from the beginning.”

“That is not our way!” the Old Man spat. Another advance. Three quick jabs as his wrist turned and flicked, whipping his blade like a scorpion’s tail.

“Your way could have been whatever you wanted it to be,” Caine countered. The Old Man was one of the best fencers in the world, but age was an inescapable fetter. The attacks were just too slow. Caine’s body moved instead of his sword, keeping just out of distance before slipping in close to bind. “You turned your whole damn family into a bunch of murdering cut throats. They’re everything the church ever accused them of now. You wanted revenge. This is what revenge gets you.” Caine’s hand clamped on the old man’s wrist.

“You’re damn right I wanted revenge!” the Old Man snarled. “And I got it. Against everyone but you.” The old man’s free hand grabbed Caine’s blade arm as well. For a moment the old enemies strained against each other, locked motionless.

“Well here I am,” Caine said with a dismissive shrug.

The Old Man grinned. “Here you are.”

Caine stepped back as the Old man advanced a step. In spite of his shriveled frame, somehow the old strongman was still shockingly powerful. Caine’s arms were forced up. He stepped in and turned his hips, bringing their blades to the side and robbing his stronger enemy of leverage. The swords clashed hard on the stone. The Old Man pushed with his shoulder, forcing Caine back again. He quickstepped and braced, then swept his heel into the inside of the Old Man’s ankle.

It was like kicking a steel bar. Pain shot up Caine’s leg. The Old man grinned and slammed his forehead forward. Caine lowered his head at the last second and felt like he’d been hit in the forehead with a brick.

Caine’s disengagement wasn’t pretty. It was work just to roll his wrist against the Old Man’s thumb. A red stripe bloomed on his forearm as he stepped back to the edge of the balcony.

“Didn’t expect you’d still be able to wrestle bears,” Caine said with an impressed grin. The pain was already fading but he could feel blood running down his face. He couldn’t afford letting it get into his eyes. As the Old Man circled, Caine wiped his head with his forearm and focused on that injury first. Almost immediately he felt it warm as his angel went to work.

“There it is,” the Old Man said, squinting his eyes into a curious glare. “Already healing. Caine the deathless. I used to think they were all just stories. You hid your nature so well. It took me nearly twenty years to realize you weren’t aging.”

Caine nodded and shrugged. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

The Old Man brought his blade down in a series of quick, heavy chops. He wasn’t probing Caine’s defenses or disguising his power anymore. He was still slow with age, but Caine’s parries squealed under the impacts. Momentary sparks flashed.

“I knew it would never come to this without forcing your hand,” the Old Man said as he beat Caine’s blade away and lunged. “You thought you could just outlive me.”

“Yeah,” Caine grunted. He sidestepped and swatted his foe’s sword with the flat of his free hand, while simultaneously slashing across the Old Man’s bicep. His reach wasn’t long enough. The Old man simply rolled his shoulder back out of distance, but his flowing white sleeve opened. With a twist of his wrist Caine parried the Old Man’s countering cut. His blade bound the Old Man’s over his head like a rainbow. The Old Man followed the arc and slashed across Caine’s waist, but the smaller man jumped back just out of reach and snapped the point of his blade into the path of his foe’s bony wrist.

Vibrations shook down Caine’s saber like he’d dragged the tip across a harp. Flesh parted and blood spilled, but the old man’s hand did not unclench. He thrust again, and Caine only barely escaped.

Caine danced, keeping distance and circling as the Old Man stalked him like an angry animal. That cut should have severed tendons. The Old Man’s hand should have been ruined, or at least weakened. Suddenly the Old Man’s earlier feat of strength was suspicious. Something unnatural was afoot here. “What did you do to yourself?” Caine asked.

“The same thing you did,” the Old Man sneered.

“Doubtful,” Caine answered. “I’m not bleeding anymore.”

The Old Man looked at his wrist and curled his lips. He advanced again. Splatters of blood rained from his wounded arm by the sheer force of his blows. The Old Man was moving faster, but with less control. Was that unnatural too? Or was his injury giving him a rush of pain-fueled energy? The Old man had always joked about how he didn’t really start fighting in earnest until he was bleeding.

Caine’s steps became bigger and more circling, like a bullfighter. He preferred to remain as grounded as possible during a fight. It was more efficient and less tiring. The best sign of an amature was whether or not they seemed like they were flinging themselves around with hops and lunges. It had been decades since anyone had forced Caine to dance. His weight shifted from the center of his old boots to the balls of his feet. His stance tightened. His steps got smaller and quicker, one after another, gliding him around in an energetic float. Gone was the bullish brawler who refused to give ground. There were no more casual deflections. No more ducking and weaving from a rooted position. No more waiting for one good opening. Now he moved. Every parry was joined with a quick step. Every clash with a counter. Most didn’t land, but a few did. Regardless, they forced the old juggernaut back on his heels.

The Old Man never stopped, never cared as more blood flowed. He was an expert swordsman backed by unnatural strength and a lifetime of hatred. He’d been willing to bleed for his victories since he was beardless. It was how he’d survived countless duels, the Purges, and a lifetime of piracy. He was willing to die to win every single time. He collected scars like trophies.

That had always been the biggest difference between them. Caine hated making sacrifices. To him, winning a duel shouldn’t require bleeding. Winning a battle shouldn’t necessitate sending fellow soldiers to their graves. Winning a war wasn’t worth it if it required the deaths of people who weren’t fighting. There were always better ways. They were just slower and less certain. It was the paradox of risk. Over time, being careful was always a bigger gamble.

The Old Man knew that about him, and was counting on it.

In the dim light, the blood that fell on the old stones looked like raindrops. Little black splatters collected on boots and left behind bloody tracks to mark their struggle.

The Old Man’s breath started to rattle in his lungs. His blows became less clean. Fatigue started to set in. More cuts opened on his limbs as Caine countered his attacks. If they hurt, the Old Man didn’t let on. They just added more rain to the stones.

“You can’t keep this up much longer,” Caine cautioned.

“I know exactly what I can keep up,” the Old Man rasped. He kept up his strikes, but more probing, trying to invite counters that he could counter in turn. Caine gave him what he wanted, letting the exchanges play out longer. He could feel himself starting to sweat, but he was a long way from tired.

“Then you know you’ve lost,” Caine said as he dragged his blade across the old man’s knuckles. Pain bloomed in his thigh. He hadn’t quite timed that one right.