“I’d melt beneath you.”
“What’s that?” Her gaze swung sharply from sky to passenger.
Turning and leaning back against the railing, Simna smiled virtuously. “I said that I felt you entreating your crew.”
“Oh.” Eyes narrowing, she looked away from him and back toward the main deck. “Certainly is thick. I’d hate to wander into another group of islands like the Tilos. No way to navigate unknown straits in this. We’d have to drop anchor and wait for it to lift.”
No islands presented themselves, but neither did the fog slide away. Instead, it continued to thicken, to the point where sailors could only see but a little ways in front of them, and had to do a certain amount of work by feel. It was not the density but the darkness that began to concern Stanager.
Standing by the wheel, she surveyed the brooding layer that had engulfed her ship. “Never seen fog this dark. This thick, ayesh, but never so black. And it seems to be growing worse. But that’s not possible. Fog, even the heaviest fog, is gray and not black.”
Simna’s eyes widened as he remembered another boat crossing. “Eromakadi!”
“What’s that?” She blinked at him.
Ehomba interrupted before his companion had a chance to explain. The silent herdsman had been studying the fog for some time now. “No, Simna. It is not what you fear. Bad enough, but not what you fear.” Reaching out, he swirled one long-fingered hand through the dank atmosphere. “Not thick enough to cut, but not eromakadi, either. See how I stir it?” He waved his hand back and forth. “Being a live thing, eromakadi would react. This is truly an ocean fog, and of a kind I have seen before, that rolls in off the ocean as easily as it clings to it.” He looked over at Stanager, partially obscured by the black fog even though she stood only a few feet away.