Diana Pharaoh Francis - The Black Ship: A Novel of Crosspointe

Crosspointe 2 - The Black Ship

Acknowledgments

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I want to thank a number of people for all the help they gave me in putting this book together and making it the best it could be: Kenna, Megan Glasscock, Christy Keyes, Melissa Sawmiller, and Rhona West-brook. Special thanks to Lucienne Diver, Jessica Wade, and Liz Scheier.

I had to learn a lot about ships to write this book, and many books and people helped in that endeavor. They include Miah Gempler, James Fraylor, Alex Zecha, the crew of the Lady Washington , and the Tall Ships group on MySpace.

Additionally, I want to give a huge thanks to Cortney Skinner for the map and Michele Alpern for the wonderful copy edit and Paul Youll for a fabulous cover.

I couldnt write without the support of my family and friends and especially my readers. To my family-there arent words enough for how glad I am I have you. For my friends-you are all made out of awe-some and your support means everything. To my readers-you are the best readers anywhere and I thank you so much for letting me tell you my stories.

There will be some whom Ive forgotten to thank and even though I do not do it here, please know that I am very grateful. As usual, all mistakes or liberties taken in this text are to be laid at my door. For more information about me or my books or expanded information on Crosspointe, please visit my Web site at www.dianapfrancis.com.

Diana Pharaoh Francis has written the fantasy novel trilogy that includes Path of Fate , Path of Honor , and Path of Blood. Path of Fate was nominated for the Mary Roberts Rinehart Award. She has also written The Cipher , the first Novel of Crosspointe. Diana teaches in the English department at the University of Montana Western. For a lot more information, including where to read her blog, maps of her worlds, updated news, and other odd and fun tidbits, go to www.dianapfrancis.com.

Days of the Sennight

Sylday

Moonday

Merisday

Hurnday

Seaday

Pescday

Emberday

Months of a Season

Mercy

Passion

Tragedy

Retribution

Fate

Hope

Fury

Loyalty

Justice

*Decay

Chance

Forgiveness

Malevolence

*With one day between Justice and Decay for judgment (when convicted prisoners are sent to the Bramble).

Chapter 1

The day began with none of the usual portents sentimental novelists always deem necessary to make their drivel interesting to mawkish readers. Thus it was that Sylbrac was not forewarned of his impending doom: the upcoming murder of his spirit, the stupid sacrifice of his soul, the end of his life as he knew it. And it was to be his own fault.

Sylbrac rose early. It mattered not that hed been out late the previous night at the Blood Oak, his favorite tavern on the docks. It was a place no other Pilot would ever set foot inside, which was the attraction for Sylbrac. Nor did it matter that hed put away the better part of three bottles of wine all on his own. He disliked slovenly habits and kept a disciplined schedule regardless of his indulgences. He dressed with the aid of his valet and ate a sturdy breakfast of eggs, bacon, buttered potatoes, and strong cream tea.

As he ate, Fitch purred in his lap, gleefully kneading sharp claws into his thigh with the smug superiority that came with knowing there would be no retaliation. Sylbrac manfully ignored the pain. Interfering with the black cats fun would only result in a snarling bite or bloody scratch across the back of his hand. Nor was that the worst of it. Fitch would then compound her revenge by shredding Sylbracs favorite waistcoat. Or more than one.

After breakfast, he went for his usual ramble along the headland, leaving Fitch curled up on a cashmere blanket before the fire. He walked quickly, nearly running at times up the steep path and along the edge of the cliffs. He loved the briny smell of the sea, the whisper of the wind in the twisted pines along the shore, and the sibilant siren song of the water.

The sun was a glowing lemon peel, gilding the black waves gold. He climbed up onto a jutting tor. The wind cleared the last vestiges of his headache. He breathed deeply, gazing out at the horizon. Frustrated anticipation coiled in his intestines. The excruciatingly long month of Chance was over, and riggers were scrambling to get ships ready for sailing. Hed get his assignment within a few days and would lay on deck before the month of Forgiveness was half over.

His fingers flexed. It couldnt come soon enough. He squatted on the jut of rock, his gaze flicking to the Pale. The string of wards protecting Crosspointe hung like fairy lights a quarter of a league offshore. They were entirely green now, the color of new grass, the color of safety. Not too long ago, they and the identical string of tide wards beneath the waves had burned bitter blue. The twin strands of wards protected the island from sylveth , a majickal substance that unraveled in tangled knots throughout the black waters of the Inland Sea. The smallest drop of sylveth could turn anybody or anything into spawn. From rope to childrens toys to spoons-anything could transform into hideous creatures culled from the nightmares of the insane. They were alike in only their mindless hunger. Hordes of spawn had been known to raven through the waves and forge onto the land like seething masses of maggots picking clean a carcass. And theyd keep eating right up until a knacker gang wearing special protective gear was sent to kill or capture them, or until they were eaten by the even more frightening monsters inhabiting the depths of the sea.

But the kiss of sylveth was not always a curse. Some lucky few were granted gifts, as slight as beauty and as vast as as vast as stepping out among the stars.

He drew a deep breath, smelling the brine, the wet of the clouds and a faint biting tang of wild majick. The wards stifled his ability to feel waves, the ever-shifting landscape below the waters, the senseless twisted currents, the massive Koreions and the gluttonous vescies, and the tantalizing curls of sylveth .

Sylbrac rubbed his calloused hand hard over his jaw. Hed been too long ashore, watching the Pale fade from green to blue and back to green. During Chance, the violent winter storms whipped the sylveth out of the waves and into the air, turning the wards blue. The only safe place was inside the Pale. Everyone took refuge on Crosspointe until Chance passed and the sylveth settled back down into the water in thick, heavy skeins, making the sea once again navigable. For a special few, anyhow.

Though the Inland Sea was still incredibly dangerous to sail the rest of the year, a good Pilot evened out the odds considerably, able to sense the rise of hull-ripping knucklebone weirs, the opening of boreholes, and the sudden uprisings of mountains from the depths. With a hand on the majickal compass installed on every ship, a good Pilot could read every chaotic change in the seabed and the waters and direct his ship on more healthy headings. Sylbrac was an exceptionally talented Pilot. But he was still dirt-bound, and with each passing moment, his hunger to be free of the obdurate island and return to the sea where he belonged intensified. The need was becoming painful. Given the choice, hed gladly spend his entire life on the waves and never set foot on the ground again.

The craving swelled and became blinding. For a moment he swayed forward. He caught himself with one hand and then pushed to his feet and climbed down off the tor.

He was too restless to return home, and instead walked down into Blacksea.

The town girdled a forested cove. It was picturesque, with exclusive shops and quaint whitewashed houses made of brick and timber. Large manor houses shouldered through the trees in rising ranks along the low ridge surrounding the town. Pilot homes. Below, a dozen coastal ketches lay at anchor in the harbor. They were painted white with crimson striping down the rails and wales. Banners floated from the tops of the masts, while crews bustled on deck, readying for sail. Smaller pleasure boats filled the marina. None had compasses or Pilots and none of them ever went beyond the Pale.