“He was right,” Lyrus agreed. “Once you’re airborne, the catapults will target you. The storm should wreak havoc with their aim, but why take needless risks?”

“Seriously?” Cole snapped. “That’s your advice? You just fought monsters on purpose!”

Lyrus shrugged. “She’s a maiden. And you can’t fight a ball of flame. Cole, I should return your shawl.”

“Let’s wait until we take off,” Cole said. “Just to be safe.”

“Very well.”

They situated the items they were taking into the coffin. Cole and Mira put on their cloaks. Lyrus picked up one side of the coffin and dragged it out into the rain. Cole followed, the rain pattering against his hood. The wind gusted hard enough to make the walk laborious.

“Not the night I’d choose to go flying in a minotaur’s coffin,” Cole said to Mira, speaking loudly to be heard over the storm.

“I’ve had some bad days with the Sky Raiders,” Mira said. “But this one takes the prize.”

They followed Lyrus until he left the coffin at the edge of a patio and stepped back. Beyond where the patio ended, the night was impenetrably dark.

“What now?” Cole asked.

Mira stepped inside the coffin. “We get in and I tell it to go.”

Cole got in as well. The coffin was fairly deep, which offered some security, but the only things to really hold on to were the sides. It was like sitting in a primitive canoe.

“Would you like the shawl now?” Lyrus asked.

“Yes, please,” Cole replied.

The soldier removed the shawl, handed it over, and stepped back. “Luck be with you.”

“Die bravely,” Mira said.

“Die bravely,” Cole repeated.

Lyrus straightened to full attention. “Count on it. Live well.”

“Skyport!” Mira yelled.

The coffin lurched forward. Cole gripped the sides tightly. The improvised skycraft flew swiftly, rocking, bucking, and fishtailing as it was buffeted by the swirling wind.

The catapults started firing. Comets of flame illuminated the darkness, though no shot came close to them. Three more volleys were launched, each more hopeless than the last. Soon all light from the fires of Parona were lost behind them.

Only the dark tempest remained.

Between their speed and the gusting wind, rain whipped Cole violently. Tucking his head down, he braced himself against the sides of the coffin. He felt like a paper airplane in a tornado. Sometimes the coffin lurched forward, sometimes it stalled, sometimes it dove, sometimes it climbed, and sometimes it spun. Often it tipped almost sideways, though never upside down. There was no predicting how it would move, so Cole hung on with all his strength.

Cole measured time by each second that he didn’t go flying freely into the storm, plummeting toward forever, surrounded by raindrops. There was no lightning or thunder, but the wind raged, and the rain seemed determined to drown him.

He had no chance to exchange words with Mira. She sat close enough that he occasionally bumped against her, which served as his only clue that he was not alone in the coffin.

As their wild flight stretched on and on, Cole began to doubt whether they would ever reach their destination. There was no way to gauge if the skycraft was moving in the right direction. They could be blown farther off course with every gust. All he could do was hold tight as the coffin reared, plunged, turned, twisted, pitched, heaved, shook, wobbled, jerked, slowed, accelerated, and curveted.

His hands grew numb from the cold. In spite of his cloak, his clothes were drenched. His muscles ached from the strain of holding on. His body throbbed from the constant jarring. He shifted a bit, trying to find new ways to brace himself.

The storm refused to relent. There was no shelter. The merciless fury was all around them. Time lost all meaning. Cole stopped hoping that it would ever end. He just held on.

He didn’t know they had reached their destination until the coffin thumped down in the salvage yard. Looking around, he could see the lit windows of Skyport perhaps fifty yards away. The rain still bucketed down, and the wind continued to howl.

Mira kept her head down.

“We’re here!” Cole called.

She looked up, then shakily climbed out of the coffin. “We have to get indoors.”

Cole took the time to collect his shawl and the bow. He had made sure to sit on them.

He checked the coffin for the other items he had brought. It was too dark to be sure, but it looked like everything else was gone, including the chest of coins and the enchanted painting.

Cole followed Mira through the gloomy, wet salvage yard, shoes squelching in muddy puddles as he navigated around sheds and other shadowy obstacles. When they reached the porch, he tossed the bow and the shawl underneath it while Mira climbed the steps. He had worked hard for them and was in no hurry to give them away.

He caught up to Mira as she pounded on the door. “It’s locked,” she told him as he approached.

At least on the porch they were out of the rain, though the wind clawed at them. Cole was about to tell her nobody would be able to hear them over the storm when the locks started to disengage. Eli opened the door.

“We’d all lost hope!” he exclaimed with a grin, stepping aside so they could enter. “Durny?”

Mira shook her head. “Just us.”

His face fell a little. Then he swatted Cole with the back of his hand. “Did you have a nice landing on that cyclops?”

“Nicer for me than for it,” Cole said.

Eli shook his head. “You’re absolutely mad. But here you are. The Maker protects fools and children. Adam will want to see you. He had some of us waiting up, in case you showed.”

Eli led them to the common area where Adam sat on his jade throne. The warm air made Cole more conscious of how wet and cold he was.

“Oh ho!” Adam bellowed. “The castaways return! I had a feeling you might resurface. Is the shaper with you?”

“He didn’t make it,” Eli reported.

Adam scowled. “What? The man built a skycraft, then forgot to board?”

“He died making it,” Mira said. “He was crushed by a huge spider. It took all he had to last as long as he did.”

Adam banged a fist on the arm of his throne. “This is why you don’t send your best shaper to collect floatstones. We have three less capable men who could have handled that errand. But given a full year and a death threat, not one of them could produce a Jumping Sword. Shame on me for letting Durny talk me into it. Anything can happen out there. You two look like drowned kittens. You’re otherwise unwounded?”