The hours passed slowly in the quiet rhythm of the river.
After theyâd eaten, Isabell excused herself to check on the stowage below decks, leaving Ashlynn alone at the bow with nothing but the fog and the steady creak of the mast for company. The crew moved about their business with the unhurried confidence of men who had made this journey hundreds of times, calling to each other in low voices as they adjusted lines, checked the depth with a weighted rope, and kept a watchful eye on the narrowing channel ahead.
True to the masterâs warning, the river tightened after the third great bend, and the banks rose higher on either side, pressing the fog into a dense, cottony blanket that turned the world into a tunnel of gray and white. The current quickened, and the cogâs hull groaned softly as the water pushed harder against her timbers, adding a low, rhythmic vibration to the rocking that Ashlynn could feel through the soles of her boots.
It wasnât the first time sheâd been on a boat since she left Blackwell, but the ponderous river cog was still a thousand times livelier than the wide, flat-bottomed boats sheâd used to traverse the winding waterways of the Briar.
This river, the Luath, was nothing like the Briar. The water here was clean and cold rather than warm and treacherous, the fog was honest winter mist rather than the Briarâs suffocating humidity, and most importantly, there was nothing dangerous lurking beneath the surface waiting to drag her under. But there was something similar in the feeling of being carried along, of surrendering control to the water and trusting that it would take her where she needed to go.
Ashlynn pressed her palm flat against the hull beside her, feeling the vibration of the river through the wood. The cog was a crude thing by Blackwell standards, but it was a ship, and it moved with the river, and there was something deeply right about having a deck beneath her feet again after nearly a year away from the sea.
"Weâre making good time," Isabell said, returning from below with her cloak dusted with the fine wood shavings that always seemed to accumulate in the holds of working boats. She settled back into her place on the coil of rope and followed Ashlynnâs gaze toward the narrowing channel ahead. "The master says weâll clear the narrows within the hour, and after that, the river broadens again for the final approach."
"The final approach," Ashlynn repeated, and the words felt heavier than they should have. Every league they traveled was a league closer to Lothian City, and every league closer to Lothian City was a league closer to the moment when plans and preparation would give way to the raw, ungovernable reality of standing in the same city as Jocelynn again.
She could plan for Owain. She could sharpen her sword and rehearse her accusations and calibrate the timing of every step from the funeral to the Grand Ceremony. Owain was a problem she could solve with steel and strategy and the carefully placed pieces sheâd been arranging for months.
But Jocelynn was not a problem to be solved. Jocelynn was a wound that bled differently depending on the day, sometimes a dull ache that she could set aside and sometimes a sharp, bright pain that stole her breath and made her hands tremble.
Nyrielle had told her to set aside everything related to Jocelynn until sheâd resolved matters with Owain, but the closer she came to reuniting with her sister, the more impossible that felt.
"You should rest," Isabell said gently, reading the exhaustion in Ashlynnâs face even without the coven bond to tell her what was happening beneath the surface. "Thereâs a cot in the cabin. Itâs narrow, and the blankets smell a bit like river damp, but itâs out of the wind and the cold."
"In a moment," Ashlynn said. But she didnât move yet. She stayed at the bow, watching the fog part ahead of them as the cog pushed steadily east, and she let the sound of the river fill the space where her thoughts were trying to take her.
The water against the hull. The creak of the mast. The low murmur of voices from the crew and the faint, rhythmic splash of the steersmanâs oar correcting their course. These were the sounds she had grown up with, translated into a smaller, simpler beat, like the beat of her own heart.
It was the pulse of water and wood and the patient labor of men who understood that the river would take you where it willed, and the best you could do was point your bow in the right direction and keep your hands steady on the tiller.
It was enough to ease the tightness in her chest. Not enough to make it disappear, but enough to let her breathe, and breathing was all she needed right now.
"All right," she said at last, pushing herself away from the rail. "Iâll rest."
Isabell walked with her to the small stern cabin, where a narrow cot had been made up with wool blankets and a thin pillow that had seen better days. The cabin was cramped and dark, lit only by the gray light that filtered through a single porthole no larger than a dinner plate, and the air inside carried the earthy smell of damp timber and old rope.
"Iâll wake you before we reach the docks," Isabell promised as Ashlynn lowered herself onto the cot. "Sleep. Youâve earned it."
Ashlynn didnât argue. She pulled the blanket up over her shoulders and turned onto her side, pressing her back against the cabin wall so she could feel the vibration of the hull through the planks. The river was there, steady and constant, pushing them east.
The fog outside the porthole had turned the world to silver, and through it, the muffled sounds of the crew and the endless murmur of the water wove together into something that was almost like a lullaby. It wasnât the shanties of Blackwell Harbor, but it sounded like the same language, spoken softly, in a voice she recognized.
She closed her eyes and reached for the bond.
Not the coven bond that tied her to Isabell, Heila, Virve, and Ollie, but the deeper one; the blood bond that connected her to Nyrielle across any distance, waking or sleeping. It was there, as it always was, a warm thread running through the center of her chest like a second heartbeat, steady and sure even when everything else was uncertain.
"Iâm coming," she whispered softly, though she wasnât sure if she meant the words for Nyrielle or for Jocelynn or for the city itself. "Iâm coming, and I wonât stop until itâs done."