Tales of Brine and Blade | Night of the Split Sky

I still talk about that night in taverns with shaky hands and taller tales.

Truth is, no man who watched the sky split open over Splitwater Sound ever came away the same. Some came away dead. Some came away mad. I came away with salt in my scars and a question the sea hasn’t quit asking me since.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

This is how it started.

We’d been running hard on a south-by-east wind, chasing a rumor of gold the way a thirsty man chases a mirage. The charts called the passage Splitwater Sound. Sailors called it something else: the Narrow Straits. Narrow water, teeth of hidden shoals, and currents that changed their minds like drunk judges. It was the sort of place captains either avoided or crossed once and never spoke of again.

We needed to cross it.

The tide was wrong for us, but the world don’t care what you need. We were three days low on fresh water, a week behind the Last Moon Run that is a monthly supply convoy that use the moonless tide for safe passage, and half my crew had that hollow-eyed look that means they’re thinking of home or a grave. I don’t allow either on my deck for long.

“Captain,” Morrow said, coming up beside me at the rail. He was my first mate and the closest thing I’ve had to a conscience since I drowned my first one in rum. “The sky’s falling fast.”

“I know where the sun is,” I told him.

He didn’t flinch. Morrow never flinched. “Not the sun, sir. The sky. Look there.”

Over the Sound, the clouds were gathering in a way they shouldn’t. Not rolling in like a proper weather front. Not swelling like storm bellies. They were stacking—layer upon layer—like something was building a wall out of them. The light behind was sickly, green-gray. The gulls had vanished. Even the sea went oddly quiet, like it was holding its breath.

An old timer once told me, If the sea holds its breath, you best learn to hold yours too.

I watched the horizon a long moment, then spat over the side. “We’ve crossed worse.”

“Aye.” Morrow hesitated. “Tonight’s the Night of the Split Sky.”

I don’t scare easy. I’ve been shot at by angry kings, stabbed by women, fought their jelous husbands, and hunted by things down in the deep that don’t have names fit for a Church prayer. But there are words that still raise the hair on a man’s arms. "Spilt Sky" was one of them…/night-of-the-split-sky