The Notch Between the Spires

The twin spires looked close enough to touch by noon, and the living course disagreed with every safe approach on Nima’s chart.

Orra held the keel-instrument against the rail while the *Morrowfin* crossed a bank of high cloud. The spires rose beyond it, two narrow pillars of dark stone with a saddle of rock between them. Their shadows fell across the island’s pale crown. The instrument’s point kept drawing toward the saddle, though Nima’s bearing put the route a ship’s width east.

“Your line’s running through the rock,” Orra said.

Nima leaned over her chart, pencil tucked behind one ear. “The chart gives us the direction from the basin. It doesn’t account for the island turning, or for the marker sitting below the visible ridge.”

“Could be a cliff.”

“Could be.” Nima checked the constellation cards pinned beside the compass. “The angle still matches. If we follow the route, we’ll find out which.”

Vey kept the spires off the *Morrowfin*’s bow. “We’ll find out without striking them. Brask, check the forward stays. Orra, keep that instrument where I can see it.”

Brask gave the rail a thump as he passed. “If it points us into a wall, I’m putting it on the bill.”

The ship moved along the island’s outer face, the levitation sails drawing clean air above the crown. Below the keel, the living course was a faint thread of light. It held its direction through the cloud, then bent sharply toward the saddle.

Orra shifted the instrument with it. The point settled. “It’s still leading there.”

Vey brought the wheel around by a handspan. The *Morrowfin* turned toward the notch between the spires.

The air changed before the rock did. A rising current caught the ship’s bow and lifted it, then dropped the stern hard enough to snap the aft rigging taut. Brask grabbed a stay and swore as the boom swung over the deck. Nima’s chart slid under the rail; she pinned it with her boot.

“Crosswind’s coming down the saddle,” Vey called. “We’ll take the outer face. Keep the sail pressure even.”

Nima glanced from her cards to the spires. “The current’s folding around the stone. There’s a pocket beneath the ridge.”

“Can you hold us in it?” Orra asked.

“I can try.” Nima lifted her hands. The constellation marks on her brass astrolabe shifted under her fingers, their reflected lights running across the polished rings. A pale plane formed along the ship’s port side, bending the gust away from the sails. It trembled as the *Morrowfin* entered the lee.

The ship steadied, but the pocket was narrow. Vey had to keep the bow angled into the wind while the stern drifted toward a tooth of rock. Brask hauled in a line and secured the loose boom, then leaned over the rail to judge the clearance.