Death Whispers 38: The Price of Ghostfire

Aug 13, 1722. Kingston, Jamaica. Where Fate collected her due…

Author’s Note: Death Whispers of the Etherwave is a serialized fiction story that is a part of Legends of the Privateers. Each chapter will appear weekly.

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, never you worry, as we’re only just getting started! The full list of chapters will appears here!

Transformed by the cataclysm of 1712, Doctor Pedro Sangre and his four courageous privateer companions confront mysterious and evil forces that plague innocent people. Together, they grapple with uncanny forces and myths come to life, risking everything to preserve peace and set right what has gone wrong.

Previously: While Port Royal drowns under a hurricane’s wrath, Pedro and his companions struggle to ferry survivors to safety. Amidst the destruction, Pedro confronts the sea hag, Morowen Waxbend, showing her the folly of trying to save the dying town itself, instead of saving its people. At least, doing so before it’s too late…

Aug 13, 1722. Kingston, Jamaica. Where Fate collected her due…

We cheated death. There wasn’t any other way to put it. But really, all I dearly wanted was a good cup of tea, a bed, and a week without curses.

The Arcane Gate yanked us out of Port Royal’s watery grave and into Kingston Bay with a haphazard flash of lightning. We shot through the Gate with the Silk Duchess in the lead, and the Rising Eel on her stern. The hurricane howled after us like a starving fiend as the Gate snapped shut.

But in the end, we survived, even if survival wasn’t peace.

The next five days were moments stitched together in a loose patchwork of poultices, bitter tonics, and half-rest. Though for me, that also included ample doses of my graveyard syrup and paralysis infection cure. By the fifth morning, once I could walk without swaying, I returned to the familiar walls of my alchemy shop.

I’d been back barely an hour, caught up with helping Primrose with orders, when a courier arrived with a summons from Archbinder Lyra Valtor.

“Is it about your curse?” Primrose asked, pulling the goggles from her eyes.

I read the note, then grabbed my long coat off a nearby chair.

“Yes. At the very least, Señorita.”

Which was how I found myself trudging up the stairs to her office on West Queen Street. Sore and still glowering at the world.

The Royal Academy of Arcanum and Science hadn’t changed, but Lyra’s office had. Walls had been repaired, leaving new panels next to the old. Books were back in place, secured up against seashell carvings, glass vials, and the shrunken skull that mocked the world.

Her yellowed notes about curses peppered the wall behind her desk in concentric circles, like a mad astronomer’s chart. Sunlight through the single, dusty window cast a warm glow over everything. The air still held the scent of smoke and old parchment.

More important?

There were also two people there waiting for me instead of one when I walked through the doorway. I reached for my hat, then remembered I’d lost it at the Arcane Gate.

“Archbinder Valtor,” I greeted Lyra politely. Then I glanced at the woman seated next to Lyra’s deck. “Good to see you again, Morowen. You’re looking whole.”

“You’re late,” the sea hag replied with her usual bluntness.

“I was helping Primrose with the alchemy shop. Teaching her the business takes time,” I replied dryly.

Morowen made a soft grunt that I decided was agreement. She wore her usual blue shawl over another calico dress. Shadow-dark curls and glimmering shark-black eyes were at odds with a grumpier than normal expression. Lyra was a happy contrast with her undead gray skin, powder-green dress.

“Archbinder? Your note mentioned something about my curse?” I asked.

Lyra gave me a bright smile.

“I did, Doctor. Please.”

She gestured to a chair opposite her desk not filled with books.

I flinched, sitting down as a resigned sigh bled out of me. Lyra brushed a strand of gray-black hair over an ear, concerned. Morowen shifted a little, studying me like an unusual bug. I felt a bit cornered.

“Really, I’m sorry for being a bit late. A few too many burns and bruises made the walk to my shop slower than I like. I’m healing, but not whole.”

“Keep using that cream I gave you,” Morowen said flatly. “It’ll take care of those burns. Won’t be quick, but it’ll work.”

Lyra simply shook her head.

“Don’t worry about the time, Doctor. Everyone knows what happened during the destruction of Port Royal. No one comes through that without at least some bruises.”

She steepled her fingers, resting her elbows on the desk.

“But first, the good news. Ever since you’ve returned, I can’t find any sign of the Bindweaver Curse on you. Best as I know, it’s lifted.”

“I don’t feel it either,” the hag grunted, glancing at Lyra. She adjusted her blue shawl around herself before indicating me with her chin.

“What I can tell, Pedro got clever when he altered the book.” Then she fixed me with a piercing gaze. “But gone doesn’t mean destroyed. It just means changed when he wrote it in as part of a ghost trap.”

Lyra’s gray zombie eyes lit up with a sparkle.

“Ghost trap?” A grin played over her face. “Interesting! I’ll want to talk about that with you later, Doctor. But right now, back to you and your curse.”

I folded my arms over my chest, wincing over aches, as I narrowed my eyes.

“You both just said the curse was gone.”

Lyra swapped a concerned look with Morowen. The sea hag’s shark-black eyes pinched with a rare unease. That was new, especially from the sea hag. The Archbinder pursed her lips, concern crinkling the gray skin next to her eyes.

“What I know is that the corrupted ink of the Codex and the Bindweaver Curse had been poisoning you.”

I shuddered a bit, remembering my conversation with the Death Whisper at the Arcane Gate.

“So you said.”

The Archbinder nodded.

“Also, as Morowen said, you altered the formula in the Codex. Not the ink, but how it was applied.”

I nodded at that, realizing what I’d done.

“The spirit anchor page I redrew.”

“Yes. The same,” Lyra replied. “Rewriting that page pulled the curse off you, giving it a new purpose. But it also exposed something else caught up in the Bindweaver Curse. A second curse that’s killing you all the same.”

I took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“What is it?” I asked. “Will the graveyard syrup formula still work?”

“It’s called a Deepbind Curse, and I’m not sure if the syrup’s effective,” Lyra said. “I’m not that familiar with this one. There’s barely three references in a book written by a Silvashar thayan wavebinder.” Lyra gave Morowen a meaningful look. “Though Morowen says she’s very familiar with it.”

I frowned at Morowen, tired of curses and feeling like I’d been chasing my tail.

The sea hag smirked back, showing the points of her shark teeth. I saw the usual devious glimmer in her solid black eyes, but no humor. Instead, there was something else. I saw sympathy. She brushed a wrinkle from the front of her calico dress.

“I am. The Deepbind Curse,” she began in a low voice. “It’s an old one. Not seen it used since, well, in centuries before that Crossing’s Fall breach threw parts of Otherworld to Earth. Never expected to see it again, really.”

She shook her head a little when I started to ask a question. There was sadness at the edge of her rough demeanor.

“I need to get something off my chest first. Thank you for yelling some damn sense into this old sea hag’s head, Pedro.”

Memories draped shadows around her eyes, deepening the wrinkles there in her sea-blue skin.

“Port Royal was all I had left. Not the town, but its people. I needed to hear that.” Her mouth pinched like she’d sucked down a lemon. “I got too caught up in making sure Tristam wouldn’t get out and run loose. Was worried no one could stop him.”

It was obvious Morowen needed to say this, so I sat back and tried to keep quiet. But what she said prompted a reply. My words were brittle.

“No one? Right before Port Royal was destroyed, you said that you gambled on me.”

An ancient glimmer of lethal mischief shone in Morowen’s shark eyes, followed by that terrifying, bloody-minded smirk of hers.

“Yes, I did. All because if I’m going to bet on someone over this, I’m betting on those damned souls walking the hero’s path. People who do whatever bloody thing needs doing, but keep their honor.” She stabbed a blue finger at me. “Someone like you, Pedro Alejandro Sangre. Because, powers of the damn seas help me, you’ll do the right thing even if it kills you.”

I squirmed at that little speech, scowling. The hag let out a rueful chuckle.

“What you did with the Codex? What you did to it? Pedro, you rewrote that anchor page to bind Tristam, really any damn spectral thing, into the Codex. Which meant the book had to use the Bindweaver Curse, since that was all it had. That was stupid, reckless… just sheer brilliant.”

Morowen cackled like this was the best joke in the world, slapping Lyra’s desk. The Archbinder started in her chair, and I nearly jumped to my feet. But I’d dealt with the sea hag for a few years now. Morowen wiped an eye before she settled down.

“Which is why I’m calling in a few debts you owe me.”

“Then I’ll collect mine later,” I said, raising my eyebrows.

“Fine. But some creatures escaped the Grayfall when the Arcane Gate almost snapped apart.”

“What?” Lyra exclaimed, wide-eyed.

“So something escaped the land of the dead,” I sighed.

The sea hag’s expression lost its mirth, melting into something more dire. Her words were flat as a river stone.

“More than one something.”

“Wonderful,” I said dryly.

Lyra frowned, leaning forward slightly.

“How does this tie to the Deepbind Curse on the Doctor?”

She glanced at Lyra, me, then waved toward the tattoos on my hand. For a moment, I saw the tattoos glimmer as if they might ignite at that moment.

“It’s related.” She waved a hand at me. “Pedro’s ghostfire on his hand? It’s poison to those things from the Grayfall. But somehow the Deepbind is feeding off him.”

Morowen shifted in her seat, waving a hand at me.

“He’s spark touched. The ghostfire is a sign of that. Back on Otherworld, that was rare, because that constant connection to the Etherwave kills.”

Lyra glanced at me, then tilted her head a little, considering Morowen.

“So this ghostfire is the Deepbind Curse?”

“No, it’s what the Deepbind has its hooks into. Pedro’s just the fuel.”

Fragile silence filled the air. I broke it first.

“Lysander claims it’s a spirit,” I suggested softly.

The hag’s feral grin returned, raising a calloused sea-blue finger at me. I scowled.

“Clever. He’s only half-right. It’s not just some ghost. Spark touched are connected to something bigger, older, from deep inside the Etherwave Arcana. This was a big deal when it happened. Think of it like getting bonded to a powerful being as your patron. That ghostfire? It’s the seal.”

I clenched my jaw until the muscles ached. At her desk, Lyra had pulled out a small stack of paper and was frantically taking notes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I snapped.

“You wouldn’t have believed me,” Morowen snapped. “Now? Don’t care if you don’t. You need to know.”

“I didn’t consent to this,” I countered bitterly.

Morowen jabbed a finger angrily at my tattoos.

“Neither did the one who made that bond, Pedro! Blame Dryden Storm’s little trinket. That squirrel skull amulet you told me about reeks of the Deepbind Curse. That skull is a jail keeping something locked up so people like Dryden can use it.”

Suddenly, I realized what she meant.

“Like what Tristam tried to do to you.”

A sad, bitter look crossed her face.

“Yes.” Morowen sat quietly for a moment. “When you touched that amulet, whoever’s trapped tried to call for help. By accident or fate, it got it… namely, you.”

I swapped an uneasy look between the two women.

“So I have to find Storm and break the amulet?” I asked. “Free whoever or whatever it is?”

A flare of soft warmth from my tattoos told me I was right.

“Yes,” Morowen confirmed, then pointed at Lyra. “Only now, we’ve a twist on the Deepbind Curse and spark touched burning up like a bonfire. You, Archbinder, stumbled over an answer. Pedro turned it into a potion.”

Lyra nodded. I saw her thoughts as plain as day.

“The graveyard syrup,” I interrupted.

“It makes sense,” Lyra said, tapping her chin with her feather quill. “It was meant to bleed off excessive mystical energy from a graveyard. So long as he keeps drinking it, he stays alive.”

“Sort of like how a portal platform grounds a navigator?” I asked.

“The same,” Lyra replied. “In the meantime, I’ll look for a better way to ground raw Etherwave so it won’t kill you. Mind you, this won’t be easy.”

Morowen adjusted her shawl with a regal dignity.

“Never said it would be. In the meantime, Pedro, track down Dryden Storm and shatter that amulet.”

I scratched the stubble thoughtfully on my chin.

“Storm knows what’s trapped.”

At the ladies’ surprised looks, I shook my head.

“He accused me of trying to steal ‘it’ or help it escape. Dryden knows exactly what he has. Swore he’d come after me to take back the part I have.”

“Good,” the sea hag said with a sharp-toothed grin. “That’ll make this all the easier.”

I folded my arms across my chest again.

“Easier for who?”

The hag grinned at me so suddenly, I thought she was about to bite my fingers.

“By salt and sea, it’s like old times. You know, Pedro, back on Otherworld we had a name for stubborn, honorable, angsty spark touched people like you.”

I drew a deep breath, then braced myself for the insult.

“That was…?”

Morowen’s grin spread, showing all her sharp shark teeth.

“We called them… paladins.”

That made me blink before I barked out a disbelieving laugh.

“I’ve been called worse. Now I get holy vestments and shining armor?”

The hag’s grin widened.

“No. Just more steel in your spine. You’re going to need it!”

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Hoist the Colors is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. Actually, when it's not swinging off the rigging, or shivering some timbers, it's rather shy and retiring. Did I mention it enjoys baking? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So he really is all to blame here.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, shoved overboard, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author's, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.