A Saving of Souls

found within the compendium "Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies"

At sea, 18^th November 1818

Rain drummed into her scalp like glass chips. Miss Luned Murray leaned over the bow’s wooden railing, straining to see through the heavy downpour. Spray from heaving waves cut against her face, so icy it left red welts. She blinked away the salt water, her eyes burning.

She didn’t need to use her eyes, her Gift homing in on the endangered crew somewhere out in front of the Acheron. They wallowed in their rescue craft beyond human or telescopic sight.

Except for Luned’s. The only lights came from the wheel house behind her, a golden glow that didn’t even begin to pierce the murk. Her eyesight wasn’t any better than anyone else’s but her Gift enabled her to see them as living souls, specks of light in the darkness.

She sensed them better when standing outside in the wash of elements. She didn’t know why. She closed her eyes, blocking out the sea water that blinded her actual sight. A lock of her mousy auburn hair came free of its strict bun and plastered against her cheek.

The ship, the Acheron, moved beneath her, heaving up and down in a rolling motion. She rode it with practiced ease, her hands touching the railing for balance.

For a small ship, it cut through the giant waves. A wrong turn on the rudder and the mass of storm-shoved waves would crush the wooden hull and drown them all. If the ship didn’t explode first.

The Acheron’s course altered. It didn’t worry her. Captain Ballard knew how to handle her. He must have made an adjustment to better weather the storm.

Luned tracked the distant sailors’ position relative to her own, waiting for Ballard to revert to their previous course. She frowned. The expected change didn’t come.

Turning, she waved up at the wheel house, trying to attract his attention. If they continued on this heading, they’d be too far from the shipwrecked sailors and any hope of rescuing them would be lost.

Between them, a carapace of jointed brass plates concealed the precious equipment that allowed the Acheron to fly. Not in this weather, however.

“Hey!” she yelled at the wheel house, still waving her arm. The gale snatched away her words.

Cursing, the icy air numbing her lips, she pushed from the railing and headed for the wheel house, grabbing safety lines as she went.

Inside, Captain Julian Ballard stood with his back to her. He gripped the wheel, which stood as tall as he, straining to keep it in place. A single lantern swung on the ceiling overhead, casting the maps on the table in between them into occasional shadow. Mr. Steward bent over them, scrying with his gift. She heard his soft curses despite the storm’s roar.

Water streamed from her, pooling onto the wooden deck. Her lips tasted of salt. “Captain? We’ve changed course.”

He gazed through the windows streaming with water. “You’re going to tell me we’re going in the wrong direction.”

“We are going in the wrong direction.” Her lips twitched, pleased that he knew her so well, but she thought better of smiling.

Mr. Steward looked up from the mass of charts, his balding head shining from the single muted lamp that swung overhead. “I calculated that the distressed ship is sou’sou’west of our previous heading.”

Luned sighed and leaned over the charts. “That’s not where we need to be. The survivors are where I said they are.”

Steward glared at her over the top of his wire spectacles. “There will be more people on the ship to rescue.”

She opened her mouth to shoot back a response and let out a slow breath instead. She and Steward could argue all night. Had done. Now they lacked the luxury of time. “Where is this ship?”

He took her hand and placed it over their current position on the chart. His touch opened her to his gift and the way he saw their world. Allowing her eyes to lose focus, she saw the map layered on top of an overhead view of the Acheron.

He drew her hand across the chart to his pinpointed location. They flew over the waves with the movement of their joined hands, rain falling through their spirit forms into the waves below.

They reached the embattled ship. It lay low in the water, the stern sinking fastest. Both broken masts reared its jagged edges, the sails dragging on the water. From their high viewpoint, bodies lay scattered across the broad decks.

“See?” Warren said, his voice hoarse.

Luned freed her hand, breaking the connection. “They’re not moving. Storm’s already got them, lieutenant.”

He scowled at her. “You don’t know that.”

“I do not sense them. They are not alive.” She glared at him, hands fisted on the charts.

His fists clenched on the map. “Just because—“

“You want us to go rescue the dead? There are men still alive out there!”

“You don’t know that there aren’t men alive on that ship,” he shot back. “We have to go there.”

“I do not feel anyone there. The lifeboats are our first priority.”

“I disagree.”

“Too bad.”

The Acheron shifted beneath her feet.

Captain Ballard cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder at them. “I am steering a middle course. We will not go in either direction until you two agree.”

Luned scowled and it matched Steward’s expression. “The ship is going down,” she said, moderating her tone. “By the time we get there, she will be gone.”

Steward disagreed. “The men in the lifeboats will still be alive and we just might get a chance to save somebody from the ship before it goes.”

She shook her head. “There are at least two seriously injured people in those boats. If we do not get them to Dr. Pelletier soon, they won’t make it.”

Steward stared down at the charts and then back at her. His shoulders sagged. “You always win.”

She straightened and grinned. “That’s because you let me.”

Without her having to say another word, Captain Ballard adjusted his course. “If the lifeboats have drifted that far, we might pick up a few more between the ones you located and the ship.”

“You are soaked,” Steward observed. He started to shrug off his dark blue pea coat.

She waved him off. Her waterproof had its limitations. “Do not bother,” she murmured. “You are going to need it.”

Sea water dripped from her coat. She had nothing to do until they reached the dinghies. She leaned against the wheelhouse wall, watching Ballard work.

He held the wheel with a strength that proved broad shoulders beneath his uniform instead of buckram padding. All their uniforms were fitted, enabling the necessary active movements without concealing any softness. Which meant the cut of trousers over Ballard’s rear made for delicious viewing.

“I see them!” Ballard shouted over his shoulder, catching her dreamy expression with a single, amused raised eyebrow. “Get moving!”

Luned stepped from the safe haven of the wheelhouse. She rang the “all hands” bell.

Mr. Alan Marsh appeared in the fore hatchway. “Finally,” he mouthed and scrambled to get ahead of her, traversing the tipping deck.

Luned followed, sliding across the uneven deck. Her boot heels caught on the staggered planks. Her arms windmilled. Water cascaded and foamed over the side and across her boots.

Her grip tightened on the safety line, her palms rubbed raw beneath her leather gloves. She blinked the water out of her eyes, blinked again.

The dragon’s roar of the waves deafened. She hand-signalled Steward and released her grip on the rope, following Marsh to the boat prow.

The Acheron lurched, rising up and crashing down. Her feet shot out from underneath her. She hit the deck, flailing. Her fingers opened and closed on air, the safety-line just out of reach.

Someone gripped her arm. Her body twisted in the back wash. She grappled for her rescuer’s forearm, gripping the comforting solidity of muscle and tendon. In relief, she hung on, searching for the deck with her feet.

She found purchase and scrambled until she had the safety line in her grasp. She blinked at her rescuer. Steward didn’t let go until she did. “Thanks,” she mouthed.

He shot her a taut smile and hand-signalled they should go forward together. He hooked a carabiner from his belt onto the the safety line, tugging on it to make sure it held.

She remained at his side. Arms akimbo to keep her balance, ready to grab Steward should the ship treacherously dip its decks again. Even with her years of experience, she didn’t trust her footing on the pitching, slick boards.

They reached Marsh. He gripped the railing, staring out into the stormy murk. She searched for the lifeboats, her gift providing guidance.

“There they are.” Steward’s arm hove into view, pointing off to the left.

Squinting against wind and rain, Luned made out a lifeboat’s pale hull, bobbing in and out of view with each giant wave.

Marsh signaled to them: It’s sinking.

Ballard must have seen his signal from the wheelhouse for the lamplight flashed in a quick staccato. Too dangerous.

Luned agreed. Any closer and they might collide. The Acheron would shatter and explode. Nobody would reach them in time for a rescue.

Marsh grimaced. He waved Luned and Steward closer.

Luned knew what to do. She squared her shoulders and laid her hands on Marsh’s shoulders, gripping his coat to keep upright.

Beside her, Steward’s arms circled her waist, giving her a stable base. She reached to find Steward’s gift and found it, freely given. She threaded her own gift into it and passed it on to Marsh.

At once, he stood straighter. He released his grip on the railing and extended his arms toward the sinking lifeboat.

The storm thrust distant shouts of shock to her ears. She rose on tiptoe to see over Marsh’s shoulder, the downpour partially obscuring her view.

The lifeboat rose from the waves, Marsh’s gift defying the laws of gravity. He drew the vessel nearer and she glimpsed the white faces of its occupants.

The lifeboat hovered before them, fifty feet in the air. Marsh curled one hand to his shoulder and a man, lying horizontally, elevated out of the boat and flew over to them.

White bandages splotched with carmine wrapped the man’s abdomen. With care, Marsh lowered him to the Acheron‘s heaving decks.

Dr. Corinne Pelletier knelt by the man. Steward let go of Luned and went to her aid.

The absence of Steward’s power dropped the elevated lifeboat twenty feet. The men aboard shouted with fear. Wave tops clawed at the tiny boat’s hull.

Luned twisted. She didn’t want to let go of Marsh and break the conduit, but she didn’t want the injured man washed overboard either. Luned stretched out her leg behind her, coming into contact with Steward’s foot. His energy surged through her, and the lift boat rose above the waves once more.

“Get one of those guys on board!” she shouted into Marsh’s ear. “We need some muscle!”

Marsh grunted and nodded. He reached toward the hovering dinghy, raising his hands high over his head. A sailor propelled out of the lifeboat, arms and legs windmilling, mouth open but soundless.

Marsh deposited him onto the deck. The sailor sprawled over the slick wood.

After a breathless moment, he scrambled to his feet and dashed over to them, sliding on his knees to collide into Pelletier. She absorbed the blow, shoving the sailor aside with her hip.

“We’re taking him below,” Steward hollered into Luned’s ear.

The hovering dinghy lurched, pitching the sailors down into its bow.

“Can you get all of them?” Luned shouted in Marsh’s ear.

He nodded.

His extended hand closed into a fist, drawing the sailors together. The dinghy dropped out beneath them, plunging into the swirling waters below.

The sailors flew toward them, landing heavily on the deck. Marsh sagged.

Luned grabbed him by the belt, hauling him up. “Let’s get you inside.”

“Where are the other boats?” Marsh bellowed, resisting her tug.

She scanned through the torrential rain, searching for signs of life.

Nothing.

She signalled to Ballard in the wheel house, circling her finger above her head. She gestured to the others in the shared sign language of all sailors. Get below!

They careened across the deck and down the fore hatch.

The minute they touched the berth deck, Marsh shrugged off her slight support. She leaned against the bulkhead, watching him lead the others to their temporary quarters.

She moved forwards, glancing into the sick bay and saw Pelletier work on the critically injured man. Gore covered her to the elbows. She stuffed the man’s innards back into his body. A soft orange glow of healing emanated from her bare hands.

Luned continued on. She paused at the mess room, but saw Marsh sucking down the thick Russian coffee he preferred. She ducked out before he saw her.

Finding her way back to the wheel house, she nodded in Steward’s direction, his head bowed over his maps. She settled in the round-backed chair bolted beside Ballard, watching him take their little ship and cargo back to safety.

She never tired of watching him. The soft lamp glow lit him from behind. The cold lights that hung from the rigging delineated deep lines about his compressed lips and aquiline nose.

Her captain. She wished he was hers.

Steward scowled in her direction. She curled inward, pretending cold, hiding her affection for her captain.

Ballard glanced at her, encompassing her drenched form, a slight furrow in his brow. His eyes, a piercing blue, had dark pupils with a spark of life in their depths, a reflection of the cold lights. His connection to the Acheron kept her in fighting trim and a deeper connection that Luned could not understand.

She watched him wrestle with the wheel, the wind and the waves. She wanted to touch him, but knew better. Shivering, she wrung out her dripping hair and as much of her clothes as possible.

Before she finished, Steward draped a blanket about her shoulders. “You’ll catch your death.”

“So will you.” She blinked up at him, water spiking her lashes.

He shrugged and returned to his maps.

Marsh appeared in the doorway of the wheelhouse. He sneered at Steward. “Wasting your time.”

Steward glared up at him. “What do you want?”

“I talked to the men we rescued. They were the only ones to reach a boat. No point in continuing to look.”

Ballard kept his attention on navigating the storm outside. “Lieutenant Murray already confirmed that. Steward is checking to see if there are any other ships in distress in this quarter.”

“Yes sir.” Marsh left them.

Pulling the blanket closer around her neck, her wet clothes soaked through the blanket. Before long, she’d have to go to her cabin and change, but for now she contented herself with watching the handsome captain steer them back to port.

Bonus Material: Dr. Pelletier’s Ship’s Log — entries from this adventure are now available for you to read.

Psst, you just started reading A Shattering of Souls, the fourth and final book/season of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles (prequels exempted of course), an alternate history fantasy romance set in the Regency era involving quests for Arthurian treasures in order to save the world from ecological collapse—and shapeshifting sea dragons. On June 13th, 2026, the story continues with Eidothea’s journal entry. Subscribers received access to the first two books/seasons in their welcome email (or separate email sent to them).

A Sword for Wellington, the third book in the series, can be read here:

Start Here: A Sword for Wellington

This story is also part of the Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies collaboration of stories, poetry and art set in the universe of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles. If you’d like to participate, follow this link for details and lore. You will be able to read all of the submissions here.

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