Chapter 016

A fathom in the Sea is merely six feet deep…yet that is more than enough for a grave.

Harker crawled out of the den and stood up. The entrance was well hidden amid a humped maze of mossy stones and tiny hillocks. Trees filled the spaces around him, thick as anywhere else in the forest, and filled with the sound of chirping birds.

He stood out there for several long moments, scanning in every direction. There was no indication he’d been found, and the sun was barely climbing the sky. He had time.

The den was larger than most, which Harker had been too addled to notice on arrival. Tucked into the earth beneath the roots of one of the larger trees, it was also framed by thick roots beside the mossy boulders. But beneath the moss, he could see deep claw marks scoring bark and stone alike.

One of the larger beasts, clearly. Harker ran his hand over the moss but it was firm. Been a while since it was occupied though. That’s a relief.

Stitchers and mercenaries were one thing, but a predator coming home to roost was a whole separate nightmare.

Harker crawled back inside. Setting himself at the center once more, he took several deep breaths. Thankfully his reflux had washed away all but the faintist hint of animal musk. One of many benefits to his curse, apparently.

Right. So I keep venting Water at an irregular rate. It hurts, but more than that, I think it’s doing some lasting harm. The ache in his chest and tributary had not vanished since he’d woken up after the Drop. The Stitcher claimed it’d wear me out…and I’m afraid he wasn’t lying.

A physical inspection came next. Harker checked over his body, from the tips of his toes to his neck and head. By and large, he was unharmed and unchanged, save for the gold lines of his stolen Chartermark. Those spanned wrist to elbow in a dense network, but Harker had almost forgotten the scars beneath it. He couldn’t find them at first, not until he traced past his elbow. At some point in his long flight south, his scars had been transformed. From wrist to deltoid, he was a maze of gold.

I’m sure that’s completely normal. Harker couldn’t find it in him to worry about it yet. The joints at his wrist, elbow, and shoulder all moved as they should, and none of his muscles felt the slightest pain—at least, beyond the strain beneath.

In addition to bearing the Chartermark and savage scars, it also was the place where his sole tributary traced out from his reservoir. The spiritual channel extended from his chest in a sharp line upward before turning in a series of equally sharp angles down his shoulder. It wrapped across his upper arm, avoiding the blood vessels with jagged turns before it pressed through his forearm. It ended at his palm Lock, the only point at which his Water could enter the world. Before the Drop, Harker’s awareness of his tributary was at best dim. It took a great deal of concentration to even feel the Water moving through it. Now he was aware of it like never before.

It hurt, mostly.

There was no wound or even a reddening of his skin, but that meant little. Tributaries were half physical and half spiritual, and as such they did not need to leave a mark to wound you. The constant flow of an incredible amount of Water was scouring his palm and wrist.

Even one more Lock and it’d feel far better. He massaged his hand, though it barely scratched the surface of the ache. And more tributaries would lighten the pressure immensely.

He had never learned how to inspect his tributaries, and his mother had said it involved one’s Current. His reservoir was a different story. That was like telling if you were full or starving. Easy enough even for small children. And according to most, one’s sense of both tributary and reservoir grows as you Descend further into the Sea.

Harker’s was full to bursting, still small but overfilled to the point where Harker feared touching it…and feared what might happen if he didn’t.

There was a solution, if he were willing to risk it.

Sovereign Sight. Harker tried to recall the few times he’d used the cursed Talent; to remember what he’d been able to pull from around himself. Had he been able to sense…himself? Harker hadn’t a clue. Bits and pieces of the sensations were still there, mostly the ones he’d focused on in the moment. Everything else seemed to have faded away. Background information his mind did not need, or more accurately, couldn’t handle. His Talent all but knocked him out every time he’d used it.

But I cut it off prematurely before and didn’t pass out. He could do that again, even if it gave him less information.

In any case, he would need a way to use his Talent without blacking out every single time. Otherwise, it was useless.

The sun had slanted into the opening of the den, crossing the dark loam. Harker pushed his finger in the dirt, marking its location. Training was necessary for all Talents, and there was no time like the present.

“Sovereign Sight.”

The first step was determining the extent of what he could do.

Water roared through his chest, emptying his entire reservoir in one go. It rushed through him, bleeding from his pores across his chest, shoulder and bicep in quick succession before gushing out of his left palm. Spraying into an arc around Harker, it formed into a circle of blue-green Water before expanding outward.

Sensation followed. All of it, all at once.

One foot, two foot, three, four, fiv—

His vision blackened, mind crowded by too much everything. Harker dropped backward and knew no more.

He awoke half-smushed against the den wall, neck at an uncomfortable angle and limbs folded awkwardly underneath his body. A groan leaked from his lips, as creaky as his neck felt. He leaned against his numb arms to push himself up into a sitting position.

The world spun, but it settled soon enough, and Harker looked to the dirt. Sun’s moved. I was out…twenty minutes or so. He swallowed. That was far too long.

Yet sensation remained.

How long would it last?

All of it was blurry and indistinct compared to the sharpness he’d experienced before blacking out, but just like in the bedroom and Garon’s shop, he retained so much. Too much. The herbals, the dirt, the den. Sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste. He gagged at the last. It seemed that the urine hadn’t gone away, but had just washed deeper into the earth. It was foul there, clogged with clay and deposits of chalk and bone.

His Talent swirled around him, a raging waterway of competing details. Too much of it tried to pull him down and drown him in useless information. Harker pressed back against it, forging upriver against the rush and sorting through what he could, but it was like sifting through a room full of screaming children, trying to find peace. And yet, in his forging, his attention snagged upon his own body. Far steadier than what lay around him, it was a stalwart rock within the deluge, churning everything else to foam.

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Harker focused, and the world fell away.

Flesh opened up to him, with detail enough to beggar his former Talent. It spread out, closer than he’d ever been, tactile and thick in his nostrils. A vision he could touch, taste, and smell all at once. The salt of his own blood was sharp, and the heat of his muscles was a cloying humidity only amplified by the dregs of the Sea still within him. His lone tributary stood before him magnified until it was the size of a river before him—but it was a river that had run over its banks again and again.

Long ago, Harker had carved the jagged lines of his tributary into himself, and the ill-shaped bends and turns of it spoke to that. Though his mother had helped, he had not done a good job. Without enough force, the process has been halting, excruciating, and humiliating. The poisoned fruit of his labor, however, was evident: wherever the course of his jagged tributary shifted, Water had spilled through and into his body. Where that Water touched, there was damage.

Depths. My tributary is falling apart. That was the source of his pain. The Water was eroding his flesh with each reflux. And likely with every use of my Talent, too.

Harker knew a great deal about anatomy, and a decent amount on how the Sea interacted with human bodies. He didn’t need his Talent to tell him the rest. If he didn’t fix this, he would be washed away bit by bit, until he was nothing more than scrap meat for the Stitcher to weave back together.