THE BONE SHIPS : THE DROWNING
Chapter 4: The Drowned King’s Call
The dream was different this time.
Valeris stood on the shore of the Drowning Sea, but the shore was not made of sand. It was made of bones—thousands of bones, millions of bones, stacked and arranged in patterns that hurt to look at. The sky was black, the clouds were black, the water was black. There was no light. No hope. No escape.
And beneath the water, something was rising.
Not the woman from before. Not a leviathan. Something larger. Something older. Something that had been sleeping for a thousand years and was finally, finally awake.
The Drowned King.
He rose from the depths like a mountain, his body covered in scales as black as the void, his eyes burning with pale fire. He was massive—larger than the Sunken Queen, larger than any ship Valeris had ever seen, larger than anything she could have imagined.
And he was looking at her.
Hello, Valeris, he said. I’ve been waiting for you.
“You’re not real,” she whispered.
I am as real as the dead. As real as the sea. As real as the hunger in your heart.
“What do you want?”
The Drowned King lowered his massive head.
His eyes were close enough to touch.
I want you to join me. I want you to become one of the dead. I want you to drown.
“I won’t.”
You will. It’s in your blood. Your mother heard the dead. Her mother heard the dead. All the way back to the first listener, the one who opened the door.
“What door?”
The Drowned King smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
The door between the living and the dead. The door your ancestor opened. The door you will close.
Valeris woke with a scream.
Isolde was beside her.
“You were dreaming,” the navigator said.
“The Drowned King. He was in my dream.”
Isolde’s face went pale.
“What did he say?”
Valeris looked at the ceiling.
At the rafters.
At the darkness.
“He said I have to close the door.”
She told Thorne everything.
The captain listened in silence, his gray eyes unreadable, his hands folded on the table. The map of the Drowning Sea lay between them, marked with the locations of leviathan sightings, bone deposits, dead zones.
“The door,” Thorne said. “The first listener. I’ve heard the stories.”
“Are they true?”
Thorne was silent for a long moment.
“I don’t know. But I know someone who might.”
“Who?”
Thorne looked at the window.
At the black sea.
“The Bone Witch.”
The Bone Witch lived on an island at the edge of the world.
The crew of the Sunken Queen had heard stories about her. She was old—older than anyone had a right to be. She could speak to the dead. She could raise leviathans. She could see the future.
She was dangerous.
She was necessary.
“We’re going to see her?” Valeris asked.
“We’re going to ask for her help.”
“What if she says no?”
Thorne looked at her.
“Then we find another way.”
The journey to the Bone Witch’s island took three days.
The sea grew darker as they sailed, the water thicker, the air colder. The dead grew louder.
Come, they whispered. Come and join us. Come and be free. Come and drown.
Valeris tried to ignore them.
She could not.
The island appeared on the horizon at dawn.
It was small—barely more than a rock—its surface covered in bones. Leviathan bones. Whale bones. Human bones. They were stacked in piles, arranged in circles, carved with symbols that glowed with faint light.
And in the center of the island, a hut.
Made of bone.
Smoke rose from its chimney.
The Bone Witch was home.
They rowed ashore in a small boat.
Valeris sat in the bow, her hands gripping the sides, her eyes fixed on the hut. Thorne sat behind her, his hand on his bone sword. Bram rowed, his massive arms pulling the oars with steady strokes.
The door of the hut opened.
A figure emerged.
She was old—older than anyone Valeris had ever seen. Her skin was wrinkled, her hair was white, her eyes were pale. She wore a cloak made of leviathan scales, and in her hand she carried a staff carved from human bone.
“The listener,” the Bone Witch said. “I’ve been expecting you.”