Sarka stared down at the hard tack in her hand. For the first time in her life, she did not have an appetite. She put the bread to her lips and bit off a piece. It tasted like sand. Fuzzy-headed, she forced the food down and then went about her day, driven by the need to make herself useful.
Every other moment she glanced over her shoulder, thinking she would see the source of her mysterious night terror lurking somewhere near at hand, but there was nothing and no one. But the only appropriate response to what had happened the night before was fear. She had spent what felt like hours awake in the night, unable to move as the pain and pressure in her skull had come and gone, threatening to drive her mad, and all the while, something had been watching her.
Sarka had gone before without sleep, but the night had drained the vitality out of her. She listlessly mopped the deck, wearing her scarf like a shawl with the ends wrapped around her hands to save them from blisters.
"Pick up the pace, woman!" shouted the first mate; his voice was as broad and strong as he was, jolting her from her stupor.
"Sorry." Sarka lowered her head and tried to blink away her sleepiness. She did not notice that the captain was watching her from up near the wheel with narrowed eyes.
That night, her second on board The Crescent, Sarka sat with her back against the wall, watching as a few of the sailors slumped into their hammocks. Exhaustion from a long day of hard work turned their bodies into sleeping dead weight before they were even horizontal. It should have been funny to watch them fall like pins in a game, but humor was the farthest thing from Sarka's mind.
She was rationalizing what had happened. She knew that the previous night had been an extended bad dream. This was her first journey away from Kogoren's shores; she could not help but be afraid, no matter how badly she wanted to be brave. The stress of it all, and the stupid stories she'd heard from Jakor and Ro and Etza, had soured her dreams. That was all.
Some dark corner of her mind had invented a vision of Ro's brother slitting his own throat. Now, that image flashed across Sarka's mind for the hundredth time. In it, the unfortunate fugitive looked just like Ro. Blood sprayed freely, reminding Sarka of the wildcat and the way the blood had gushed from it when she finally struck the fatal blow. She had been so tired that day...completely spent...heavy with exhaustion...
Sarka flinched. Had she almost fallen asleep? Had that been a dream?
She peered around herself through the gloom, shaking her head. No. No, she was awake.
Had Ro's brother woken in the middle of the night, unable to move? Had he felt something watching him? Demons...the Beloved?
Suddenly angry, Sarka pushed away the thought of Kogoren's retinue of lovers. The stories had infected her mind and he was being stupid and paranoid, like everyone else on her cursed homeland. She lay down, resting her cheek on her folded arm, and wrapped the other arm over her head to help drown out the sound of the sailors' snores.
Within moments, inexorable exhaustion pulled her down into a cold and inky sleep, and when she woke later that night, she felt like she'd been buried a thousand feet into the ground. She lay with the weight of the world on top of her, crushing her. The pressure building in her skull was unimaginable; her teeth gritted together so tightly she could feel them vibrating in her head.
She tried to move her arms, tried to turn her body to shake off the weight, but she could not.
Who is it who is it who is it who-
The frantic plea raced through her mind, a senseless supplication.
Nothing obeyed. Nothing came forward from the shadows.
There was only terror.
...
"Still think you made the right choice?"
Sarka jumped. The pot she had been holding fell to the floor with a clang.
Etza leaned down and picked up the pot. She thrust it back into Sarka's hands. "You've been standing there for an age. I thought you said you would pull your weight."
"Sleeping on a ship doesn't agree with me." Sarka placed the pot on the table. She had been about to start doing something, but she could not remember what until the ship's cook, busy tending the fire built in a sandbox on the deck, indicated a tray of potatoes with the knife he held.
"She's useless, cap'n," he said.
"Shut up, Hob." Etza folded her arms. "It isn't the ship that's keeping you awake, is it, girl?"
"It's just the ship." Only a moment ago, Sarka had been vividly reliving the strange in-between state of the previous night, the futile sleep-without-sleep, the waking dream of darkness and fear. But she had to keep going. To keep her mind moving, she had to push away the reality of what was happening to her.
Etza said, "You're an idiot, and I won't mourn you. Your friend back in Horn Harbor might. I'll have to tell him you died just like all the others. Do me a favor, refugee: don't let it drag out. We'd rather be rid of you sooner than later."
Leaving her words sparking in the air, Etza turned on her heel and left. Sarka stared at the space where the captain had stood a moment before. Across the room, the cook surreptitiously flicked his wrist, one finger extended. The gesture traced the shape of a crescent in Sarka's direction.
I am going to die. Sarka turned the thought over in her mind, examining it from each angle. She looked down at the tray of potatoes, not seeing them. I do not think I am ready to die.