He was kept off balance by the second cuff, no longer around his wrist but clamped to a hook in the cabin wall.
And worse, he wasn’t alone.
Alucard Emery was leaning in the doorway with a book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other (the thought of both made Holland ill) and every now and then his dark blue eyes flicked up, as if to make sure the Antari was still there, safely tethered to the wall.
Holland’s head ached. His mouth was dry. He wanted air. Not the stale air of the cabin cell, but the fresh air above, whistling across the deck.
“If you set me free,” he said, “I could help propel the ship.”
Alucard licked his thumb and turned a page. “If I set you free, you could kill us all.”
“I could do that from here,” said Holland casually.
“Words that do not help your cause,” said the captain.
A small window was embedded in the wall above Holland’s head. “You could at least open that,” he said. “Give us both some air.”
Alucard looked at him long and hard before finally tucking the book under his arm. He downed the last of the wine, set the empty glass on the ground, and came forward, leaning over him to unlock the hatch.
A gust of cold air spilled in, and Holland filled his lungs as a spray of water sloshed against the hull and through the open window, spilling into the cabin.
Holland braced for the icy spray, but it never hit him.
With a flick of his wrist and a murmur of words, the water sprang up, circling Alucard’s fingers once before hardening into a thin but vicious blade. His hand tightened on the hilt as he brought the knife’s ice edge to rest against Holland’s throat.
He swallowed, testing the blade’s bite as he met Alucard’s gaze.
“It would be a foolish thing,” he said slowly, “to draw my blood.”
Flexing his wrist, Holland felt the splinter of wood he’d slipped under the manacle, point digging into the base of his palm. It wouldn’t take much pressure. A drop, a word, and the cuffs would melt away. But it wouldn’t set him free.
Alucard’s smile sharpened, and the knife dissolved back into a ribbon of water dancing in the air around him.
“Just remember something, Antari,” he said, twirling his fingers and the water with them. “If this ship sinks, you will sink with it.” Alucard straightened, shooing the sea spray back out the open window. “Any other requests?” he asked, the picture of hospitality.
“No,” said Holland coolly. “You’ve already done so much.”
Alucard cracked an icy smile and opened his book again, obviously content with his post.
* * *
The third time Death came for Holland, he was on his knees.
He crouched beside the stream, blood dripping from his fingertips in fat red drops as the Silver Wood rose around him. Twice a year he went there, a place up the river where the Sijlt branched off through a grove of trees growing up from the barren ground in shades of burnished metal—neither wood nor stone nor steel. Some said the Silver Wood had been made by a magician’s hand, while others said it was the place where magic made its final stand before withdrawing from the surface of the world.
It was a place where, if you stood still, and closed your eyes, you could smell the echoes of summer. A memory of natural magic worn into the wood.
Holland bowed his head. He didn’t pray—didn’t know who to pray to, or what to say—only watched the frosted waters of the Sijlt swirl beneath his outstretched hand, waiting to catch each drop as it fell. A dash of crimson, a cloud of pink, and then gone, the pale surface of the stream returning to its usual whitish grey.
“What a waste of blood,” said a voice behind him casually.
Holland didn’t startle. He’d heard the steps coming from the edge of the grove, boots landing on dry grass. A short, sharp knife lay on the bank beside him, and Holland’s fingers drifted toward it, only to find it wasn’t there. He rose to his feet, then, and turned to find the stranger holding his weapon in both hands. The man was half a head shorter than Holland, and two decades older, dressed in a faded grey that almost passed for black, with dusty brown hair and dark eyes flecked with amber.
“Nice blade,” said the intruder, testing its tip. “Gotta keep them sharp.”
Blood dripped from Holland’s palm, and the man’s eyes flicked to the vivid red before smiling broadly. “Sot,” he said easily, “I didn’t come looking for trouble.”
He sank onto a petrified log and drove the knife into the hard earth at his feet before lacing his fingers and leaning forward, elbows on his knees. One hand was covered in binding spells, an element scrawled along each finger. “Nice view.”
Holland still said nothing.
“I come here sometimes, to think,” continued the man, drawing a rolled paper from behind his ear. He looked at the end, unlit, then held it toward Holland.
“Help a friend out?”
“We’re not friends,” said Holland.
The man’s eyes danced with light. “Not yet.”
When Holland didn’t move, the man sighed and flicked his own fingers, producing a small coin-sized flame that danced above his thumb. It was no small feat, this display of natural magic, even with the spellwork scrawled on his skin. He took a long drag. “My friends call me Vor.”
The name settled like a stone in Holland’s chest. “Vortalis.”
The man brightened. “You remember,” he said. Not you’ve heard of me, or you know, but you remember.