The sea always felt like home to Lucan. He could not explain it. Perhaps it was because, when he had been very little, no more than a toddler, he had spent three months crossing the Winedark Sea. For most of the other children sent to Aurelian orphanages—Yarruk wanting nothing to do with them and Aurelia desiring cheap labour—it had been a hellish time. The small trading vessel was meant for livestock, not people. The children had squatted in the old, shit-caked hay in place of the animals. They had been fed the same fish-broth day after day; the smell had been excruciating.

  But there had been a comfort in it, the strange comfort of knowing that one was headed somewhere. The presence of a destination, however far—and three months was an impossibly long time in the mind of a four-year-old—inspired a sort of hope, a sort of sense of change. When one’s life was confusion and misery, the prospect of change was welcome. It came with a sense of purpose. I am going somewhere. And one day, I will arrive.

  Though Lucan desired nothing more than to reach Memory and begin his ascension, he was content that the Black Heart was on its way. He would arrive—sooner or later. There was a comforting inevitability about it all.

  For most of the day, they had hugged the coast, careful to avoid shallows and rocks, but equally never losing sight of the shoreline. Lucan had watched the strip of land go by for a while. Forests, white cliffs, and occasionally small fishing towns. This was his domain, the domain over which he had been made master. It was a beautiful place.

  But it was not enough.

  It would take them another six days to cross state-waters and enter Phaedril, then another three to reach the River of Lords.

  He had retreated belowdecks to his room—or rather, Pi’dan’s room, which he had taken over—for the moment. He sat on the bed with a leather-bound volume open. He did not enjoy reading, but he recognised the utility of a book in this scenario, for the journey would be tedious without some kind of stimulation. Thus, he had gotten Orfus to pack a selection of tomes focused on Memory. Most were written by early explorers. Their information was often unreliable, or embellished with touches of fancy and fantasy. One would think the dragons grew on trees there given how many claimed to have had encounters with the beasts. Lucan doubted very much that those who encountered wild dragons lived long enough to tell the tale.

  But there were some nuggets of useful information in amongst the rumour. His heart always leapt in his chest whenever there was any mention, however elusive or vague, to the Shadow Market. He was also intrigued by the references to “Hideous Towers”. They seemed to be the ruins of some former civilisation, and the Shadow Market lay beyond them, but for whatever reason the explorers were always hazy on details. Nothing so clear as a map existed, although there were plenty of illustrations of the weird denizens of Memory’s jungle. Sirens appeared in a few texts. These seemed to resemble beautiful women, and emitted gorgeous songs. But they were in fact fungus of some kind, growing into the shape of women, glowing, drawing men and women in with their unearthly music. Then came the spores, which put one into a deep sleep. Lucan shuddered. How could mindless Nature develop such cunning traps?

  There was also frequent reference to some horrific, predatory monster dubbed a “Slithgor”, but descriptions of these beasts were nonsensical. Lucan assumed it was some kind of chimera, and thus the authors struggled to assemble its manifold parts.

  A groaning thunder broke through his concentration. Lucan sat up. He was not afraid, for he knew the sea to be a wild mistress, but with all that’d happened at Wylhome, he was equally not complacent.

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  He heard the crew abovedecks shouting in Qi’shathian. They sounded distressed, alert.

  He put aside the book and left the room, marching up the stairs. On deck, he saw the sailors scurrying about frantically, jabbering to one another and pointing. A few were arraying harpoons against one side of the boat. A pair were unfolding a huge net and attaching it to a pulley system on the crosstrees. Another sailor had climbed the mast and peered over the water with a telescope.

  Captain Pi’dan stood stolidly at the wheel, guiding it with one lazy hand. There was no air of panic about him. His dark eyes were narrowed as he glared out over the rolling ocean; it was as though he needed no telescope, for he could see to the very horizon.

  Lucan approached the captain. “What is the matter?”

  The groaning sound came again. It was mournful, almost like whale-song. But something not quite right about it: too low, too dark, too deep. Whales keened soulfully and high. This was the rumble of dark intent.

  “They think there is a whale out there,” Pi’dan said, but he sounded as uncertain Lucan. He barked an instruction in Qi’shathian and two sailors begrudgingly left their posts and went belowdecks. They’re going to the cannons, Lucan realised.

  Xarl and Orfus appeared on deck. The huge theront tramped over to where Lucan stood. He still wore the hood over his head though there was no need out on the waters. Habit, Lucan supposed. Xarl turned his strange eyes out to sea, glaring through the tiny holes in the fabric.

  “My lord,” Xarl said. “Something approaches.”

  “If they have merely sighted a whale...” Lucan said, ignoring Xarl’s simplicity. “Then why are the men so nervous?”

  Pi’dan glared at him.

  “You had better go belowdeck, Governor.”

  The captain barked more instructions in Qi’shathian. Clearly, the crew, despite their mixed origins, had learned to obey Pi’dan in his mother-tongue. Perhaps Qi’shathian also contained nautical terms unavailable in Yarulian. They were, after all, masters of the sea.

  Lucan did not go belowdecks. The energy was too vibrant. His heart thundered in his chest. He felt alive once more, and was actually enjoying the slight terror that raced through his veins. He cast his eyes out to sea. He needed no hunter’s vision to see what the sailors were gawking and pointing at: there was a gigantic swell, like a mountain of seawater, rising in the near distance. Something black shimmered beneath the red waters. He could not help but think of a parasitical bug lying just below the veil of skin, pushing its way out…

  The sailors abovedeck readied their harpoons, glittering silver in the bright blooming sun. The ship listed as the first ripples of the swell reached them. The Black Heart was a sleek, fast ship, able to dart into the valleys between waves with ease, but such was the strength of the preliminary swell that Lucan felt himself slightly dizzy with the undulating motion. He stumbled—and Xarl caught and steadied him.

  The theront stared at the rising hill of seawater.

  “No whale…” Xarl gargled.

  For once, Lucan agreed with the theront.

  The swell in the distance reached a peak, and then suddenly the waters broke. From a mouth of white foam there emerged a blackly gleaming form. It was… a limb. A single, octopean limb. But of gargantuan size. The slick, oily tentacle rose higher than any spire or tower. The minarets of his lovely manse were simply sandcastles next to this black, gleaming obelisk. Suckers lined its inner side. Strange hooks and barbs and other aberrations—more like insect legs—pulsed and flicked, as though they were tasting the air.

  “What in the name of the gods…?” Lucan whispered.

  Then the limb descended.