The Sage looked from the bust of Harmony back up to the slice in the doorway. One of the Blackflames had broken the door behind them, trapping her grand-nephew in a dissolving pocket world.

They could not be allowed to take the Akura clan so lightly. An insult like this, gone without redress, would make the family look weak before their enemies. She was inclined to punish the sacred beast, simply on principle; any beast that dared to snap at a human should feel the consequences.

But one did not reach Charity's level without a certain amount of cold logic. And the Heart Sage had great control over her own emotions.

The Blackflame artist and his turtle had entered as the weakest individuals in Ghostwater. If they had truly grown to the point that they could threaten Harmony, then she couldn’t blame them for doing so. Harmony had competed in a game—one in which he'd started with all the advantages—and lost.

It pained her to think of one of her young relatives in such a way, but regret couldn't change the truth. She had known there was some risk to Harmony. Training him in the face of real danger was part of the reason they'd brought him here; no talents bloomed in a closed room.

And they needed talents. Now, more than ever.

That thought made up her mind. She would not cut off the Blackflame boy's growth, unless of course he demonstrated hostility against the clan itself. He might grow into another valuable asset of the Akura clan.

But she could apply some extra pressure.

And if the Blackflame bloomed under pressure, then he would be qualified to pay off his debt.

~~~

Lindon knelt in the cramped confines of the cloudship, pushing pure madra endlessly into a script carved into a wooden panel. At the center of the script was a fist-sized crystal flask containing a rolling green cloud—the madra that powered their flight. The ship creaked and shook as though in the middle of storm-tossed waves.

[You're doing great work,] Dross said in his head. [So great. In about five minutes, when we run out of cloud madra and fall screaming to our deaths, I want you to remember that you died doing your best.]

They had found the Skysworn cloudship where they left it: on the edge of the island outside Ghostwater. It had been more or less intact, but the crystal flask that stored its cloud madra was not entirely full. The green Thousand-Mile Cloud wouldn't have lasted all the way back to land, so Lindon had been stretching it with pure madra.

Unfortunately, that meant diluting it. They didn't have any wind or cloud artists onboard, so the Thousand-Mile Cloud got thinner by the day. Eithan had fueled a cloudship in this way before, but he had alternated between providing his madra and using scripts to draw aura. Either this cloudship couldn’t do that, or Lindon hadn’t figured out how.

Yerin and Mercy took turns piloting the ship. Mostly Mercy. When Yerin took the helm, she tended to run them too close to aura storms, hostile sacred beasts, and mountain peaks. Though she did make good time.

Lindon sent another pulse of madra into the script, and the green cloud rolling in the crystal flask weakened another notch. The ship shuddered, and he knew the large Thousand-Mile Cloud that was keeping them aloft had faded as well. He couldn't add any more power. Scripts on the ship’s hull would draw in aura from outside to replenish their stores, which was the only reason they’d lasted this long, but that system couldn’t keep up any longer.

“Let them know,” he ordered Dross.

He could feel it as the mental construct opened up his mind, projecting words into Mercy and Yerin at the same time. [Attention all crew: everything is fine down here, except that we’re out of fuel. As long as we make an emergency landing right now, everything will be totally safe.]

Lindon hurried up, bracing himself against the wall as the cloudship pitched. His pale right arm sank into the wood as though into soft mud, and it took him a moment to pull it free.

There were no windows below the deck. He had no way of telling if they were close to landing or not. They could be inches from the ground or a thousand feet in the air, and he would have no idea.

The worst part was not knowing, he decided. When the ship shuddered again and he lost his balance, he couldn’t tell if the turbulence was nothing to worry about or if they were all on the brink of death.

Finally, the ship stabilized again, so he shoved open the trap door and made his way outside.

The weather was beautiful. He had been down in the dark so long that he had pictured it storming and raining, but in fact the wind was calm and the sky was clear.

Yerin stood at a wooden panel covered in shining script-circles, her teeth bared and eyes furious. The two silver sword-arms behind her back had been jammed into the wood of the deck, nailing her in place. The control panel had been made for someone taller than she was, so it came up almost to her chin, but she glared down at it like she was about to crush it to splinters.

Nearby, Mercy had lashed herself to the railing with long tendrils of darkness. She sat cross-legged, nestled in the center of her web, purple eyes shining. It seemed like she was looking forward to the danger, though he would have thought she'd have gotten enough on Ghostwater's island. Her hair was still short, shorter than Yerin's; a reminder that it had been burned off by a dragon Underlady and she'd spent weeks—and a fortune in elixirs—recovering from the damage.

She raised one black-gloved hand and patted the wall of smoldering shell next to her. “We’ve got everything under control,” she said. “No need to worry!”

Orthos didn't poke his head out. He was tied to the deck by the same strings of shadow that bound Mercy. His voice rumbled out, echoing as though from a cave. “You're the ones who should be worried. Not one of you has a shell.”

Lindon could feel that the huge turtle was barely keeping his fear under control. That made it harder for Lindon to wrestle his own nerves, but there was still a spark of pure joy left in Orthos' soul. He had been practically reborn in Ghostwater, and he hadn't stopped celebrating for the past two weeks. Even now, withdrawn into his shell and preparing for a crash, there was a part of him that exulted in his new, strengthened body. That was enough to help Lindon fight his way free of Orthos’ fear and keep a clear head.

Lindon pushed his way out and along the edge of the ship, keeping a tight grip on the railing. They were definitely descending, though the trees were getting closer at a much faster rate than he was comfortable with. And the green cloud keeping them aloft had faded to a sort of lime-colored haze. Maybe it was better not to look.

Mercy had been controlling the ship until recently, when she ran out of madra, and then Orthos had tried before getting frustrated and threatening to blast a hole in the hull. Finally, Yerin had taken over, determined to land the ship even if it killed her.

Through the creaking of wood and the rush of wind, he heard the soft tinkling of glass. Little Blue scampered up to him a moment later, a tiny spirit in the shape of a woman made of deep blue light. Her flaring dress slid smoothly over the deck. She pulled herself up Lindon's leg, nimble as a monkey, and a moment later she sat on his shoulder. Chimes sounded in his ear as though she were filling him in on everything that had happened since he'd gone below.

Recently, he'd thought he was starting to understand her: she was telling him about the sights she’d seen during their flight. It could have been his imagination giving shape to the Riverseed’s meaningless squeaks, but he responded attentively nonetheless, nodding gravely at her and making responsive noises himself. If she was telling him something, he didn't want to seem rude.