CHAPTER FOURTEEN
By the time Dust arrived at port, he felt as if he were nothing but his hands. His blistered, bleeding, painful hands. His whole world had narrowed down to the spot where they gripped the oars, so that he had to force himself to make each stroke, pulling himself onward past the ships and the boats.
His previous craft, with its sail, had made the journey to the Seven Isles seem easy. This boat did not have a sail, did not have space, did not have provisions. All it had were the oars that cut into Dust’s hands day and night while he rowed, and the chafing of the sea salt against his gray skin. He hadn’t slept since he’d left, had run out of fresh water long enough ago that his thirst was vying with the pain in his hands for control.
Dust was in control, though. He had his
