The Vampire & Her Witch-Chapter 1185: The Isle of the Drowned (Part One)

"How long has the light been burning, Mor?" Rhys asked, raising his voice to carry over the sharp crack of the sail snapping in the wind as the small sailing ship cut through the surf under the skilled guidance of its master.

The skiff wasn’t large; there was barely room for a dozen men to man the oars for traversing the shallow, treacherous waters on the far side of the Silver Cliffs, and the combination of Count Rhys, Sir Mor, the ship’s master, and a pair of guardsmen made the remaining space very crowded.

Beyond the protective embrace of Blackwell Harbor’s towering cliffs, the wind came at them from three directions at once, howling off the open sea to the east, sweeping down from the cliffs to the west, and curling back around the rocky islands that dotted this stretch of coastline to create eddies that made every heading a battle.

The blustery winter weather had cleared most of the scattered clouds away, leaving a vast expanse of stars overhead and a waning crescent moon that offered barely enough light to distinguish sea from sky.

The lantern swinging from the skiff’s prow cast a small circle of golden light across the dark water, but beyond that circle, there was nothing but the scattered pinpricks of starlight reflected on the choppy surface and the distant, steady glow of the harbor lighthouse far behind them, marking the entrance to safety they’d left behind.

"The light’s been burning for three nights, my Lord," Sir Mor shouted over the sound of crashing waves and the sail snapping in the wind. "A fisherman caught sight of it three nights ago and word spread from there. I brought men close enough to confirm it two nights ago, but..."

"But you know better than to approach the Isle of the Drowned," Rhys said as he gazed out across the choppy sea toward the faint, bluish light that seemed to wink in and out of existence as the boat pitched over the waves.

Three nights were neither a long nor short amount of time, but he was glad he’d ordered the boat prepared as soon as Mor mentioned the light. Some things could be delayed without paying a price for it, but Rhys doubted that this was one of them. His only regret was that he’d arrived home so late in the day that he had to rush out in the dark of night, but he dared not wait until first light to respond to the signal fire.

The skiff’s timbers creaked as a wave lifted her bow, and Rhys braced himself against the mast as cold spray burst over the rail, the salt water stinging his face despite the high collar of the oilskin cloak wrapped tightly around his shoulders.

One of the guardsmen cursed as his boot slipped on the wet deck, catching himself on the gunwale with a thump that momentarily froze the ship’s master’s blood as he drew a deep breath to shout ’man overboard.’ 𝓯𝙧𝓮𝓮𝒘𝓮𝙗𝙣𝒐𝒗𝒆𝓵.𝓬𝓸𝒎

It would have been hard enough to rescue a crewman in these waters if they pitched over in broad daylight, but if anyone went over the rail in the dead of night, they were almost certain to be raising a tankard and singing his name before dawn. Mercifully, the unlucky fellow knew his business and held fast to the lines, undignified as it was, rather than scrambling back to his feet like an embarrassed fool.

The square sail billowed and cracked again as the wind shifted, and the master barked an order that sent his crew scrambling. Ropes hissed through blocks as they adjusted the sail’s angle, their hands moving with the practiced efficiency of men who’d sailed these waters since boyhood. The rudder groaned as the master leaned his weight against the tiller, fighting to keep them on course toward the dark silhouette of the Isle of the Drowned.

"Has the Church spoken of it?" Rhys asked his loyal Steward over the sounds of the ship. "Are they preparing to make a move?"

Normally, he wouldn’t even have asked. Blackwell County, with its many islands, shipwrecks, and ancient history, was home to more than enough ghost stories to drive the Inquisition mad if they tried to chase them all down. Sailors saw things in the fog, in the waves, and in their drink that could be terrifying monsters or fictitious nonsense, and the Church had learned long ago that tall tales weren’t worth chasing, and real ghosts could be far too dangerous to hunt.

"It’s not like Trevarthen, my Lord," Mor said with a smile. "We don’t have any of those self-righteous, smug, bast-, er, that is to say, we don’t have anyone from the Holy City filling up the ranks of our priests and Inquisitors. They’re good men of Blackwell, my Lord, they know the tales as well as anyone else does."

"No one sets foot on the Isle of the Drowned who doesn’t have the blood of the First Crew in their veins," Sir Mor promised. "Even if the Church calls it a superstition, the men of the sea know better."

"Good," Rhys said, clapping his loyal steward on the shoulder before pulling the oilskin cloak tighter around his chest to ward off the chill in the sea air. "I’ll settle things here. Just get me to the north side of the island and then set sail for home. Don’t come back for me until after first light."

"My Lord?" Mor asked, blinking at the count in surprise. Rhys looked harder than he had a year ago, and he’d allowed a close-cropped beard to cover his cheeks and chin that matched his steel grey hair, giving him an even rougher look, but Mor had never known the count to be much of a fighter.

Outside of one duel, famously fought over the hand of Lady Maela, Count Rhys was known for avoiding and defusing fights more than winning them, so where did he come off saying that he would settle things like he was a master of the brass-hilted sword that hung from his waist?

"Everyone has at least a few secrets, Mor," Rhys said as the crew began to lower the sail, breaking out the oars to navigate the rocks that surrounded the approach to the Isle of the Drowned. "This one belongs to the First Crew and the Crown, and meddling in the king’s secrets is a good way to stretch your neck," he said, pitching his voice just loudly enough for the crew to hear.

Of course, the strange blue light burning in the abandoned lighthouse on the Isle of the Drowned had nothing to do with the king or the crown, at least not directly, but the people crewing the boat didn’t need to know that...