"Circle that ship! Fire the cannons!"
Toric's orders cracked across the water, sharp and final, the particular final of a thing that had been given something and was using it. The Crimson Serpent vessels moved as one—slithering through the deep, coiling around their prey like a serpent around a dying animal, their hulls cutting the water, their sails catching the wind, their cannons already loaded, already aimed, already waiting.
"Captain, what do—"
Dunstan's words froze.
Ashan stood rooted. Motionless. A shadow of tension crawling across his face—visible, wrong, terrifying. The particular terrifying of a thing that had been given something and was using it. His hands, which had been steady, which had been the particular steady of a thing that had been given something and was holding it, were still. Too still.
"Captain!" Dunstan shook him.
No response. Grey-white eyes stared at something only they could see, something that was there and was not there and was waiting to be seen. His breath was slow, measured, the particular measured of a thing that had been given something and was using it. Too slow. Too measured.
Then—Ashan's hand clamped down. Tight. Absolute. The particular absolute of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
"Dunstan. Take Toric. Flee."
The words were calm. The voice beneath them was not. Tension. Fear. Something Dunstan had never heard from his Captain, something that had not been there before, something that was there now and would not go away.
"What?" His voice rose, cracked, became something that was almost a question, almost a protest, almost the particular almost of a thing that had been given something and was using it. "It's one ship. Why should we—"
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The cannons fired. The Suryazar vessel should have sunk. Should have burned. Should have died. The cannonballs flew, iron spheres that had torn through ships before, that had ended fleets before, that had been the particular end of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
Bright orange searing waves swept them aside. Fire met iron. Iron melted. The particular melted of a thing that had been given something and was letting it go.
Then—a shower of blazing spheres fell on the Crimson Serpent fleet. Ships caught. Ships burned. Ships died. The particular died of a thing that had been given something and was letting it go.
"GO."
Ashan's voice was iron.
Dunstan moved. Grabbed Toric. Pulled.
"Hey! What—we lost six ships!"
"Captain's orders. We flee."
"What about the Captain?"
Both men looked back.
Ashan stood alone. Calm. Collected. His hands twitched beneath the stillness, the particular twitch of a thing that had been given something and was holding it. Pirates screamed. Pointless. Hopeless. Terrified. The particular terrified of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
"Are we going to die?"
"We have the Crimson Ghost!"
"We won't die!"
Dunstan cut the dinghy loose. Toric's eyes swept the deck one last time, found the bodies, found the blood, found the thing that was there and was not there and was waiting to be seen.
Those three idiots died too. He let the thought surface, let it become part of the thing that was happening and would happen and would not stop happening until it was done. Shit. Why is Captain ordering retreat? His eyes, which had been fixed on the enemy ship, narrowed. Did he feel something? Something too strong?
"Hurry!" Dunstan shouted.
Toric jumped.
"Look! Those two are running!"
"Then why aren't we running?"
Fearful gazes turned to Ashan. Still watching the enemy ship. Still waiting. The particular waiting of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
The distance closed. A few feet now.
Danger sense screaming. He let the thought surface, let it become part of the thing that was happening and would happen and would not stop happening until it was done. Arohan. On that ship.
Mantriks. Ten. Yoddhas. Twenty. All trained. All ready. His eyes, which had been fixed on the enemy vessel, narrowed. All.
And that one.
His gaze fixed on the figure at the enemy vessel's prow. Crimson-gold armor that caught the light, that held it, that was the particular holding of a thing that had been given something and was using it. Sun emblem blazing on his chest, the sun that had been there before any of them were born and would be there after they were gone. A scimitar in his hand that seemed to drink light, that was the particular drink of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
Ashan's expression did not change. But beneath it—cracks. The particular cracks of a thing that had been given something and was letting it go.
What am I doing?
Sending my pawns to safety. Standing alone against the endgame.
A fool. He let the thought surface, let it become part of the thing that was happening and would happen and would not stop happening until it was done. That's what I am.
The nagin slithered from the cabin.
No one noticed. Death was too close for curiosity, too close for fear, too close for the thing that was there and was not there and was waiting to be seen. Toric and Dunstan's dinghy had made distance. Not enough. Never enough.
"I didn't expect you to be the sacrificing type."
The voice bloomed in his mind—mocking, curious, watching. The particular watching of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
Sacrificing?
A low chuckle escaped his lips. Hollow. Real. The particular real of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
"That's the paradox, isn't it?" He did not look at her. Did not need to. "The ideals you bleed to live by—the world bends them. Every time. Without fail."
His hands stopped twitching.
"The world reminds you: weak. pathetic. a leaf in autumn wind."
He watched the enemy ship glide closer, its hull cutting the water, its flag snapping in the wind, its particular snapping of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
"And here I am. Doing anything to survive. But now—saving them. Not for them." He paused, let the words hang, let them become part of the thing that was happening and would happen and would not stop happening until it was done. "For what they built. For what I built."
A pause, the particular pause of a thing that had been given something and was holding it.
"I thought my life was all that mattered. But the things I made... they matter too."
He smiled. Thin. Real.
"You never know what you'll do. Even when you deny it."
If I were powerful...
If the world couldn't bend me...
I wouldn't feel this. Gut-wrenching. Betraying myself. He let the thought surface, let it become part of the thing that was happening and would happen and would not stop happening until it was done. Because there would be no choice.
His eyes flickered. Grey-white shifting. Something else stirring beneath. The particular stirring of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
The nagin listened.
Her hand touched her wound—the hideous cut from chin to cheek, the flesh that had been torn, the flesh that was healing, the particular healing of a thing that had been given something and was using it. Her eyes flickered with emotions she did not name, did not want to name, did not know how to name.
Truly a strange human.
"If you want..." Her mind-voice was different now. Less mockery. More... something else. The particular something of a thing that had been given something and was using it. "I can save what you built. You?" A pause, the particular pause of a thing that had been given something and was holding it. "Impossible."
Ashan's smile widened. "What do you want?"
Hiss. Hiss. Amusement coiled beneath the sound, the particular amusement of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
"What can you give? You're going to die. I'll take what I want myself."
"You're right."
A pause.
"Five seconds."
His hand touched her cold skin. His eyes spun—grey-white whirlpools consuming everything, becoming the thing that had been waiting for this moment and was now, at last, ready to be used.
"What—"
She felt it. Vanishing. The deck. The ship. The death closing in. Her body—gone from that place, from the thing that was there and was not there and was waiting to be seen.
She looked back once. Saw his back. Saw the enemy ship. Saw death approaching.
And jumped into the sea.
Nice meeting. She let the thought surface, let it become part of the thing that was happening and would happen and would not stop happening until it was done. Too bad. He dies young.
"Move, you bastard! Move!"
"I'm straining!"
Toric and Dunstan fought the rudder, their hands slipping, their voices rising, their whole bodies caught in the grip of something that was almost panic, almost determination, almost the particular almost of a thing that had been given something and was using it. The dinghy crawled. The enemy ship loomed.
Then—the dinghy surged. Water parting. Speed impossible.
"WOW!"
"Captain!" Toric's voice cracked with something between hope and despair. "Is that the Captain!"
Dunstan grabbed him. "Don't shout, you drunken bastard!" His voice was low, was fierce, was the particular fierce of a thing that had been given something and was using it. "You'll draw them!"
Too late. Too late for everything.
The Suryazar vessel drew alongside. Close enough to touch. Close enough to burn. Close enough to be the thing that had been waiting for this moment and was now, at last, ready to be seen.
"Vice Admiral." A soldier pointed. "Dinghy. Escaping."
The Vice Admiral waved a dismissive hand. Then—leaped.
He landed on the Crimson Serpent deck like a falling sun, his armor blazing, his scimitar burning, his particular burning of a thing that had been given something and was using it. His scimitar blazed—orange-red light consuming shadow, consuming hope, consuming men.
A circular wave of heat swept across the deck. Pirates caught flame. Burned like dry wood. Screamed like dying animals. The particular screaming of a thing that had been given something and was letting it go.
One move. He let the thought surface, let it become part of the thing that was happening and would happen and would not stop happening until it was done. One move and they're ash.
Ashan braced himself.
His eyes shifted. Grey-white whirlpools—and beneath them, something else. A faint ember glow. Just for a moment. Just enough. The particular enough of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
One chance. One strike. One breath between now and death.
The Crimson Ghost faced the sun.