The boat didn't have a name. It was just wood and sail and wind. For ten days, they sailed south. The ocean was unnervingly calm. No storms. No waves higher than a few feet. The weather obeyed the Core now. The clouds parted when they needed sun. The wind filled the sails when they needed speed. It felt less like sailing and more like being carried.
Ezra stood at the bow. His hand rested on the railing. The wood was warm. It pulsed slightly under his palm. Like a heartbeat. He had stopped checking the compass. It spun wildly anyway. North was wherever Ash wanted it to be.
"Land," Tomas said. He was at the stern. He held a pair of binoculars. Old glass. Brass. They worked. Unlike the digital gadgets that had died in the Pole.
Ezra looked ahead. A line of grey rose from the sea. Mountains
