Faced with a characteristic he could reach out and touch, Silas fought to keep his emotions in check, taking several deep breaths before he finally settled down.
"So what's the price?" He looked at Arianna. "Or, I guess, what would I need to do to earn this?"
As always, the Evernight Goddess never gave her grace for free.
"Same as when you were in the Church. Build up merit, then trade it in for rewards."
The Secrets Suppliant withdrew her palm as she spoke. The blood-red skull faded away in an instant, replaced by a deep blue flower.
"That's everything I have to tell you. Silas Londor, if what I've said interests you, and you want to come back to the Church, light this Deep Slumber Flower and it'll summon me."
Silas turned it over in his mind for a moment, then reached out and took the flower.
"Understood," he said.
"Praise the Goddess," Arianna murmured, withdrawing her hand and returning to her prayer.
Silas didn't join her.
He simply watched her figure fade away piece by piece, starting from her dusty, scarred feet, up through the plain black robe patched with visible stitching, and finally the bark-woven belt at her waist.
"One more thing."
Just as only her head remained, she suddenly turned toward Antia, who stood off to the side, watching warily. "Stop overusing your abilities. Your anchor looks dangerously unstable."
The words had barely landed before she vanished completely.
An anchor?
Had Arianna somehow seen through Antia's disguise, realized her true form was a ship, and that was why she'd brought up an anchor? That didn't quite add up either.
What would a ship's anchor have to do with using too much extraordinary power? Silas turned to look at the angel he was contracted with, and something about her expression struck him as off.
Had that woman actually hit the mark?
He stepped toward her. "Are you all right?"
Antia had seemed a little off lately, now that he thought about it.
She'd stopped coming out as often, hadn't even seemed as eager to pet Luna. Sometimes her form looked thinner than it should, like she might blink out of existence at any second.
"Not really," Antia admitted, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, smiling with something like regret.
Silas's chest tightened.
Don't do this to me. You're going to give me a heart attack.
"That 'anchor' she mentioned," he said. "That's not actually about your ship's anchor, is it?"
"Of course not." Antia gave him a sidelong look, as if his question barely deserved an answer. "What she meant by 'anchor' is a concept from mysticism."
"Mysticism?"
"That's right. Let me ask you something. When you were promoted to Sequence 4, did you feel your mind being pulled at by the potion itself? Growing colder, more detached, less like yourself?"
"Yes." Silas remembered it clearly, from when he'd become a Black Knight. It had taken the Queen's guidance, and him dredging up all his hatred, pain, and anger, to shake off the potion's grip.
So that was connected to the anchor?
He kept listening as Antia explained.
"That influence comes from spiritual instinct. From humanity's collective subconscious, and even more from the extraordinary characteristic itself.
By the time you reach Sequence 3 or Sequence 2, it only gets stronger. It reshapes a Beyonder's whole temperament, until you're left with a cold, ruthless killer that devours every extraordinary being in reach."
The Ship Spirit's voice had gone low and distant as she laid out the ignorant, cruel, cold, twisted underside of the extraordinary world.
"That's what the 'anchor' is for. Beyonders have to spread word of themselves, get people to know them, understand them, believe in them.
That's how they leave a mark in the collective subconscious, something solid enough to hold their state steady."
Like dropping an anchor into a storming sea, fixing yourself in place before the current could drag you under.
"That's a good way to put it," Silas said. Then something clicked. "Wait. So the reason the gods spread their faith is..."
"The exact same reason," Antia said, without hesitation.
Of course it was.
Silas went quiet. If word of something like this ever got out, he wondered how many believers it might break.
But his own believers weren't the problem right now. His Ship Spirit was.
"Antia. What about you, then?" He frowned at her. "How's your anchor holding up?"
He'd certainly never heard of some strange religion built around worshipping ghost ships.
"Mine's a little different," Antia said. "Part of it comes from Roselle. People still tell stories about what he did, and as his old flagship, the Black King picked up a reputation because of that.
The rest comes from the local sailors and natives around the Fog Sea. The ghost ship legends they pass around help keep me steady too."
That sounded fine, on the surface, except both of those anchors would only grow weaker with time.
"So where does that leave you right now?"
"That woman called it exactly right." Antia looked almost helpless. "My anchor was solid enough to get me through day to day. But I've been using too much power lately, and it's worn me down. The potion's pull is starting to creep back in."
Ah. That was on him.
Silas felt a stab of guilt. He was the one who'd had her fight two Sequence 1 angels back to back. Of course it had taken a toll.
"I'm sorry," he said, meaning it. "So what do we do?"
"She was right about that too. I need to hold back for a while." As Antia spoke, her body started to thin, growing less solid by the second.
"I won't use my abilities. I'll wait for my spiritual imprint to settle. Which means I might not be much help to you for a while."
"That's fine," Silas said. He didn't want her losing control either. "What can I do?"
"Spread the word for me. Tell people my story. I'm your flagship now, so I should be known too."
"I will."
"And I'm not letting you leave me behind. Even in Backlund, you're bringing me with you."
But that last part was going to be a lot harder to manage.
How exactly was he supposed to bring a ship onto dry land?
Before he could even ask, Antia stepped in close, grabbed his arm, and bit down on it.
In that instant, the black three-masted ship moored at the water's edge vanished, and a black anchor mark appeared on his arm in its place.
"I'm counting on you, Captain," Antia said, pulling back with a sharp, striking smile.
Under the afternoon sun, her lovely face and body broke apart piece by piece, dissolving into light that sank into the anchor mark on his arm.