When Ravens Call: The Fourth Book in the Small Gods Epic Fantasy Series (The Books of the Small Gods

in the salty air, but his search proved fruitless. One did not find the virtue of bravery externally, but within, and it pained him to realize he lacked this ideal at the most important times.
Rilum continued splashing shoreward, his strokes as strong now as when he'd first plunged in. Teryk wondered if he'd have the same stamina to make it to land. Pondering it made the shore appear farther away, and doubt crept into his mind. The choice belonged to him: did he prefer to die on the raft or in the sea?
"I haven't died yet."
He shook his head, attempting to dislodge his fear. After being stabbed, left for dead in a crate at the docks, threatened with being thrown overboard as a stowaway, and surviving the raging storm when everyone else perished, how could he imagine himself not protected by an unseen source? It had been so his entire life if he took time to reflect. Like any other youth, he'd placed himself in many precarious situations, maybe more than most, given the adventurous nature of his sister. He'd survived with nary a scratch, and the same held true now.
Did his presence in the prophecy ensure his survival? Whatever hand inscribed those archaic words also plucked him from danger when required and set him on his necessary path.
I have courage in me.
He gritted his teeth, glanced back over his shoulder to make sure the sea behind him remained as free of deadly serpents as the water ahead of him appeared, and gasped a shocked breath into his lungs. In his concern for Rilum and his own life, he hadn't noticed his foot touching the captain's severed arm.
Without consideration, Teryk kicked at it, sending the limb spinning across the piece of deck and over the edge into the sea. He scrabbled to his feet, took a quick step forward, and jumped. He slipped on the wet wood, and he entered the water ungracefully, the surface slapping his face with the force and shock of the open hand of a jealous lover. The cold penetrated him at once, forced the sting from his flesh.
With his head underwater, panic flashed through the prince, his body recalling the struggle in the stormy sea. It held on a few extra heartbeats after he resurfaced an instant later, gasping for air with the voracity of a man deprived for far longer than he had been. Satisfied with his ability to breathe without having to fight to fill his lungs, his racing heart slowed, and he set himself to stroking toward shore.
In his youth, both Trenan and Danya—who'd learned to swim at a much earlier age than he—attempted to teach him the proper method to ensure the most efficient use of one's energy while swimming. It involved keeping your face in the water and exposing it to draw breath every few strokes. Try as he might, Teryk had never mastered the technique. His lungs despised any attempt at holding his air. He found it easy when diving under the surface, or with his face out of the sea, but not how it suited his present needs best. For whatever reason, attempting to do so brought on extreme agitation.
So Teryk swam, head tilted back, and noticed he no longer saw Rilum Seaman as he had when standing on their raft. He thought he detected the wake left by his passing, but couldn't be sure. Now submerged in the sea, it didn't seem so calm as before.
The prince stretched his neck to peer over his shoulder, scanning the watery expanse behind him for the piece of deck which saved their lives. A gentle roll of waves had developed, alternately hiding the chunk of wood from him the same way it kept Rilum from his line of sight, then heaving it into view. He noted something else in the water beside it. At first, this presence concerned him, but he soon realized what it must be: Captain Bryder's arm.
Seeing it again caused a twinge in his chest. Grief? Regret? He hadn't known him well, but he must have been a good man to rise to the rank he did. As he stroked and thought about it, Teryk understood it wasn't a sense of loss causing the feeling behind his ribs. A memory floated into his head, mimicking the limb floating on the sea, and he recalled the sliver in his finger, blood in the water, the way it attracted fish.
Teryk's eyes widened. His strokes faltered.
Where did these waves come from?
He returned his attention to the shore ahead and the task of reaching it. His breaths came in short bursts as his arms plunged into the increasing swells. The nature of the sea remained mysterious to him, but he guessed sudden and unpredictable changes might be the norm. The thought did nothing to quell the sliver of panic inserting itself in his chest.
The shore—more accurately, the line of trees beginning after the ocean ended—appeared no closer than before. To keep from losing heart, he diverted his focus away from his goal and the creatures potentially finding their way to dine on Bryder's arm, instead counting his strokes. He decided on forty as the right number to complete before directing his gaze landward again.
He concentrated on the count, resisting the compulsion to gauge his progress or look back. The effort of swimming returned the pain and tightness to his shoulders, and doubt about his ability to make it to shore crept into him. He knew the shortness of his breathing contributed to this fatigue, but struggled to slow his inhalations.
Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. Forty.
The waves grew, though they remained but rolling bumps of water. As he rose on one, he glimpsed Rilum stumbling out of the ocean and onto the shore. A measure of relief flowed through him—if his companion made it, then he could, too. He returned his attention to counting his strokes.