“Tell me what?” Pherris said softly.
Seren held out one hand, cupping a small golden badge sculpted in the shape of an open wing. Pherris’s eyes widened in disbelief. Keeping one hand on the ship’s wheel, he extended the other toward her, pudgy fingers trembling so much that he fumbled at first, dropping the tiny chunk of metal to the deck. Seren stooped to pick it up, but Pherris shooed her away with a curt gesture.
“Master Snowshale,” Pherris called out. “Master Snowshale!” he repeated.
Gerith poked his head out of the galley hatch. “Captain?” he asked, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“Take the helm,” Pherris said, dropping to his knees on the deck. “Please.” The ship listed heavily to one side as her captain lost contact with the helm.
Gerith gave Pherris a concerned look, then hurried to comply, taking the ship’s wheel. The Mourning Dawn steadied herself, though she did not fly as evenly as before.
Seren knelt beside Pherris, unsure what to do. The gnome looked so much smaller and older than usual. He cupped the little piece of metal between his hands.
“Haimel,” Pherris whispered, shuddering. “This belonged to Haimel. His first mate’s badge. He would never lose this. Where did you find this?”
“Metrol,” Seren said. “In the ruins of the train station, on one of the bodies of the Dying Sun’s crew.”
“What-” Pherris struggled to compose himself. “What did you do with his remains?”
“Omax and Ijaac buried him, along with the rest of the crew,” Seren said.
Pherris nodded slowly, seeming to take some small solace in that. “Thank you, Miss Morisse,” he said. “At least there is that.”
Then Aeven was there, without sound or warning. The dryad knelt beside the tiny captain and wrapped a slender arm around his shoulders. Pherris closed his eyes tightly and clasped the badge in both hands, fighting the tears.
“I’m a fool,” Pherris said, his voice still thick. “Nothing but an old fool, for believing he could still be alive.”
“No,” Seren said. “You couldn’t give up hope. He was your son.”
“My son,” Pherris said. He looked around the ship’s deck blankly. “He was the whole reason for all of this. After the war, I was planning to retire. When Dalan appeared and said he was looking to unravel the mysteries of Ashrem’s final days, I agreed to stay on, to take Karia Naille on one last adventure. I knew Haimel disappeared along with Ashrem … I thought I might find him some day. I thought he might have survived, like Marth and Kiris did.” He bowed his head again. “I was a foolish old man to think the Gerrimans would be spared.”
“Remember him, Pherris,” Aeven said. “It is all you can do. Haimel will survive in you.”
“I only wanted to find him to say good-bye,” Pherris said weakly, eyes glazed as he stared at the deck. “He was my only son, and I never told him how proud I was. He was the only family I had left.”
“Not anymore,” Seren said. “You have us now.”
The gnome looked at her in surprise. His thick moustache twitched. One corner of his lip curled in a slow smile. “Thank you, Seren,” he said.
“What’s going on out here?” Dalan asked, stepping out of his cabin and looking around. “Something wrong?”
“Everything is in hand, Master d’Cannith,” Pherris said, standing up smartly. Aeven had vanished once more. “Master Snowshale, you may return to your duties. I shall take the helm.”
“Aye, Captain,” Gerith said with a grin, hopping back down to the deck and vanishing into the galley.
Pherris climbed back up to the ship’s controls, pausing only long enough to pin his son’s badge on his vest before taking the wheel again.
Dalan looked at Seren suspiciously. “Everything in order?” he asked.
“Everything’s fine,” she replied, standing. Seren took a small guilty pleasure from Dalan’s confusion.
“How far to Nathyrr, Captain?” Dalan asked, moving beside the helm and looking out at the vast plains and forests of Thrane.
“An hour at most, Master d’Cannith,” Pherris said.
“Good,” Dalan said. “Mind that we do not land close enough to the city to be seen. If Marth has agents in the city, they will recognize our ship.”
“Aye,” Pherris said.
Dalan nodded and marched across the deck into the galley. Seren watched the captain quietly for several moments. He peered back at her, squinting slightly. “Something on your mind, Miss Morisse?” he asked.
“Are you all right, Captain?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said brusquely. “I am not the sort of gnome to display my grief outwardly. I intend to honor Haimel by completing our mission. Then I’ll have time to mourn.” He winked. “Now. Shouldn’t you be waking Master Xain or something?”
“Aye,” she replied, hurrying back below deck.
Omax still sat in the shadows of the hold, meditating on whatever mysteries occupied his mind. Seren took care not to disturb him. When she reached Tristam’s cabin, she found the door open. He sat at his small desk, poring over stacks of hastily scrawled notes.
“Seren,” he said, smiling warmly when he saw her. The smile quickly faded. “Have you been crying?”
“I’m fine,” she said, wiping her cheeks with the back of one hand. “I finally worked up the courage to tell Pherris about his son.”
“Oh,” Tristam said, his voice subdued. He looked confused, uncertain what to say.
“Everything is fine, Tristam,” Seren said, clasping one hand over his. “We should be in Nathyrr soon.”
“Already?” Tristam said, surprised. “I’ve lost track of time. I had no idea we would be arriving so soon.”
“That normal, healthy sleep schedule you’ve been practicing lately probably threw off your sense of time,” Seren said.
“Clearly,” Tristam said. “I’ll have to cut that out.”
She frowned. Her hand tightened painfully over his.
“A jest,” Tristam said, wincing. “I’m joking, Seren.”
Tristam sorted his notes, stashed them in a drawer, and shrugged into his coat. He nearly dropped his shortsword from its scabbard as he strapped it onto his belt.
He noticed her stern look and grinned. “I put on a façade of clumsiness to lure opponents into a false sense of security,” he said, adjusting the sword at his hip.
“Whatever,” she said. “You really need more practice with that thing.”
“I’ve been practicing,” he countered meekly.
“With who?” she demanded.
“Ijaac has been helping me,” he said. “He’s the one who gave me the sword.”
Seren frowned at him.
“What?” he asked.
“I can’t believe you’ve been cheating on me with another sparring partner,” she said, her tone terse and clipped.
“Are you serious?” he asked, confused.
“No, now I’m jesting,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Come. The others are waiting.”
Tristam followed Seren back to the ship’s deck. Ijaac and Omax had already gathered there with the others. Dalan stood at the railing, cupping a bowl of thick stew in one hand and chewing contentedly. Dalan’s old dog lay at his master’s feet, eyes sharp for any morsels that might fall from the bowl. Gerith delivered an identical bowl to each of them and then retired to the far corner of the deck to eat his own breakfast.
“Do you think there’s any hope Marth might actually still be in the Harrowcrowns?” Dalan said without preamble. He looked intently at Tristam.
“I really don’t know,” Tristam said. “Even given that the Dying Sun needed to take on a new crew, he had a large head start on us.”
“Karia Naille is faster,” Pherris offered.
“That counts for something,” Tristam said. “Even if he did arrive before us, he shouldn’t have much of a lead.”
“Do you think Zed and Eraina are all right?” Gerith asked.
“We shall see,” Dalan said. “I am eager to see what they have learned. If the Harrowcrowns are truly the heart of Marth’s operation, then I might be able to answer a question that has disturbed me for some time.”