by Elle Cardy
A pinprick of emotion pierced her heart when he spoke her name. She forced it down. “In what ways?”
“You are dangerous to yourself. Lack of training implies lack of control. Every time you wield without a talisman you hurt yourself. Untrained, untalismaned wielders generally die before the age of five.
“I’ll be seventeen next month. So I must have some level of control.”
“Not from what I’ve seen.”
Jasmine scowled at him. “Fine. How else am I dangerous?”
“You are a danger to this ship.”
She laughed then. “How can one cabin boy be a danger to the ship?”
“When your emotions get the better of you, when you’re afraid or angry or confused, you wield. You don’t realize you’re doing it. The rain that fell during Brusan’s flogging was caused by you. The storm that followed was you. You could have sunk the ship if I hadn’t stopped you.”
Jasmine remained silent. She wanted to deny him. She wanted to tell him he was foolish, but she couldn’t. The possibility of truth in his words swirled around her like a vicious taunt. She wanted to hide. If she hid it might all go away.
“Control yourself.”
“What?”
Finn sighed. “You are wielding even now.”
“I am?”
“You are trying to hide, aren’t you?”
Color flushed her face. He was right. It only made her want to hide more.
“Stop it, Jasmine. You don’t need to hide from me.”
There was something in his voice she could trust. She took a deep breath and calmed herself.
“Much better.”
A wave of weakness washed over her and the pain in her head worsened.
“You’re feeling weak, now, aren’t you,” he said, “and your head throbs?”
She nodded.
“It’s a symptom of a wielder without their talisman. The more you use your power the worse it becomes.”
“So it’s true. I’m a wielder.” She hadn’t wanted to believe him. It hadn’t seemed possible. She didn’t want this. The world seemed bleaker than it had ever been before.
Silence hung between them like a pall.
“Am I really that much of a danger?”
“And more.”
Jasmine’s mouth felt dry.
“You are a danger to me,” he said. “There is a reason why there are so few untrained wielders around. They are hunted down and killed — along with anyone helping them.”
Jasmine rubbed her head.
“It’s getting worse?”
“Aye. It’s making me feel sick.”
“Try this.” Finn reached out and turned the palm of her right hand up. In it he placed a small seashell. It was a half shell in the shape of a fan. He closed her hand over it. “While I was gone, I borrowed it from one of the sailors who collects seashells. Now, try to focus your power into the shell.”
Jasmine had no idea how to do this. She stared at her closed fist and wondered what was meant to happen.
“This shell may serve as a talisman. Usually the wielder must pick the object himself, but it might work.”
“Nothing is happening.”
“It’s a slow process. It takes years.”
“Then how do you know if it will work?”
“You’ll know.”
A pain burned behind her eyes. She wanted to close them before she threw up in front of Finn, but she was determined for this talisman thing to work. She had to get rid of the pain. So she stared at her fist, thought of the shell, felt its cool ridged surface in her palm. Warmth filled her hand.
“Something is happening,” she said with excitement.
“Hold back,” Finn warned.
Pain lanced through her hand. Finn grabbed her hand and opened her fingers. She winced. Together they looked in horror at her ruined palm. Shards of broken shell pierced her soft skin and blood welled out of her wounds.
Finn swore.
Her whole life she’d been around men who swore, yet hearing it from Finn didn’t seem right.
He swore again. Her blood dripped on his floor. “We’d best find Doc to get this fixed up.”
*
The smells in the infirmary hadn’t improved since the last time she had been there. A low light burned in one corner. Cook lay on his stomach in a berth at the far end of the room. His soft snores told Jasmine he was asleep. Doc sat at a cluttered desk. He peered at a number of papers while he sipped a glass of rum.
“Sorry to disturb you at this late hour,” Finn said, “but we need your assistance.”
“Not to worry, my boy.” Doc smiled and put down his rum.
Jasmine showed him her hand. Doc turned it toward the light and he frowned. “What have you been doing? Falling into mounds of broken shell?”
“More or less,” Finn answered for her.
Doc muttered to himself and indicated she should sit on the berth closest to them. He pulled his chair over to her and brought the lantern and a metal tray with a wad of white cloth, a couple of strange instruments, and a bottle of clear liquid.
“Hold this up so I can see,” he said and handed the lantern to Finn. He uncapped the bottle. “And this is for you.” He handed it to Jasmine.
She sniffed it and realized it was alcohol. She screwed up her face.
“Take a swig, boy. You’ll thank me later.”
Jasmine lifted the bottle to her lips and drank. The liquid burned down her throat. She coughed.
“Better take another.”
She obeyed and coughed again. Whatever this alcohol was, it wasn’t ale and it wasn’t rum. It was a nasty concoction that sat in her belly like a pool of molten acid. Warmth raced through her body. The pain in her head and her hand lessened. She smiled.
Doc took the bottle back and his hold on her wrist tightened. He poured the clear liquid into her palm. Her smile vanished. She would have wailed had the alcohol not robbed her of her voice.
“Be still, boy. I can’t take the shell fragments out of your hand with you wiggling around like that.”
Jasmine tried to obey. It was hard not to fight the Doc. He pulled out the first fragment and dropped it onto the tray. Sweat broke out on her forehead.
“Take another swig.”
She didn’t argue. The liquid burned and it also numbed the pain. It seemed to wash away her weakness as well. Strength filled her muscles as the room began to sway.
Doc leaned in close to pull out another fragment. He muttered something again then sat back up. “Finn, I need light here. Hold up the wretched lantern. Finn?”
Jasmine had trouble focusing on Finn. He seemed distracted.
“The Prize found us,” he hissed and shoved the lantern at Doc. He dashed for the door, leaving nothing but a cold gust in his wake.
“Here,” Doc said as he gave Jasmine the lantern. “We’re going to have to do this ourselves.”
Jasmine took the lantern in her left hand, and Doc muttered complaints when it swayed. She bit her lip while he took out another fragment.
“How’re you doing, Midge?” he asked. “It is, ‘Midge’, right?”
“Aye,” she said and giggled. “Midge is me.”
“Well, this next fragment is in deep. I’m going to need to dig for it.”
The ship’s bells tolled.
A thrill of excitement raced through her. “I heard tell that the Prize is here to rescue us.”
“Never you mind about that. Just hold up the light.”
“Aye, captain.”
Doc took a long thin instrument from the tray and doused it in the alcohol. He then doused her hand again. She squealed and almost dropped the lantern.
Doc sighed. “This isn’t going to work.”
“Can I help, Doc?” The voice came from behind. Jasmine peered over her shoulder and saw Cook sitting up.
“That you can, Brusan. Hold up the light and keep your boy still.�
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Her father wore a loose shirt and he walked gingerly toward them. A new wave of guilt overcame Jasmine. She couldn’t look him in the eye. He took the lantern from her and winced as he crouched beside her.
“Perhaps the lad can take another swig?” Cook suggested as he stared with surprise at her wounded hand.
“You trying to get your son drunk?”
Cook shrugged, winced, and said, “Can’t hurt.”
Doc looked at Jasmine. She supposed he saw her anxious expression there. “Will you be still if I let you have another dose?”
Jasmine nodded. Doc handed her the bottle and she took a deep draft. Fresh warmth washed through her. She could push aside her guilt if she concentrated on remaining still, if she let the warmth fill her mind. She focused everything she had on stillness.
“Brace yourself, boy,” Doc said.
Not once did she flinch or cry out. The room swayed but she didn’t think she swayed with it. When Doc washed her wound a final time and wrapped her hand in gauze, he sat back and seemed satisfied with his work.
“You did well, Midge.” Doc turned to Cook. “You must be proud of your son. I’ve seen hardened men weep at less than that.”
“Aye,” Cook said. “I’m very proud of Midge.”
Her father’s admission surprised her. She’d thought she was a disappointment to him. She wasn’t a boy. She wasn’t a cook to follow in her father’s footsteps. She wasn’t anything he wanted.
“He’s looking a little pale, though,” Doc observed. “It might be the loss of blood. I’ll keep him here for the rest of the night. As for you, Brusan, you need your rest.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Cook said and shuffled back to his bed.
The warmth that coursed through Jasmine’s veins turned to exhaustion. She lay down in the berth Doc had given her and closed her eyes. Her hand throbbed. She tried to sleep but her mind wouldn’t let her. She remained alert and anxious. She kept thinking about all the things Finn had told her about wielding. She was meant to be a wielder herself.
She wanted to laugh even though her situation wasn’t laughable. Perhaps, she thought, it would be better to cry. She tried to cry into her pillow. She tried to feel the weakness and the misery and the pain, but nothing worked. No tears came. She was left with a sense of emptiness and loss.
The door to the infirmary slammed open and two men came in carrying Finn. The wielder’s complexion looked ghostly. He seemed drained of all life. The men lowered him onto a spare berth. They spoke in quiet voices with Doc, then left.
Doc sighed at Finn and checked him over.
“What happened to him?” Jasmine asked.
“The fool wielder overworked himself again,” Doc replied.
Jasmine didn’t know wielders could overwork themselves. “Will he be all right?”
“Aye, lad. We’ve lost the Prize again. Your old captain is a stubborn man.”
“Wouldn’t you be if someone stole your men?”
“Someone already did, lad. Why’d you think we needed more crew?”
“So your captain decided to take whatever happened to be around?”
Doc frowned at her. “For someone who’s lived at sea all his life, you’re awfully naive.”
Jasmine scowled at him. She rolled over and tried again to sleep.
Chapter 7
Jasmine woke to the Doc’s touch on her forehead.
“You don’t look well, boy.”
“I’m fine.”
“You didn’t wake when I changed the dressing for your hand and you look almost as pale as Finn over there.”
Jasmine glanced at Finn lying in a low bed near them. He seemed to radiate death. “He looks terrible.”
“Aye. The only difference between the two of you is that the bruises on your face at least give you some color.”
Jasmine offered Doc a weak smile. “I’m fine,” she said again. “I always look like this.”
“Don’t lie to me, boy. You seemed better last night when I was digging into the holes in your hand. That’s when you should have looked pale.”
“Do I have a fever?”
“No,” he said, reluctant to make the admission.
“Then I’m fine.”
Roberts entered the infirmary. He seemed like a man on a mission. He searched the room and noted Jasmine’s presence with a sneer. His gaze stopped on Finn.
“The captain wants to know how the wielder is doing.”
Doc directed him to where Finn lay. They spoke in quiet words Jasmine couldn’t hear. She knew she’d only draw attention to herself if she tried to lean closer, so she remained still and closed her eyes. The last part of the conversation drifted to her ears like a whisper.
“Kahld is more stubborn than I would’ve given him credit,” Doc said.
“Aye, but when will the wielder’s strength return?”
“Soon.”
“When?”
“By tonight, I imagine.”
Jasmine released a quiet breath and with that breath a shuddering weakness cascaded through her body. She realized too late she must’ve wielded to hear the words and now she had to pay for it.
“What about him?”
Jasmine looked up to see Roberts and Doc staring at her.
Doc crossed his arms over his chest. “According to him, he is fine.”
Roberts gave Doc an incredulous look. Doc shrugged. A smile emerged on Roberts face. He reminded Jasmine of a shark hunting for prey.
“If he’s fine then he can report for duty. The same goes for Seaman Brusan. I want them both on deck in ten minutes.”
When he left, Jasmine turned an accusing stare on Doc.
“Don’t blame me, boy. I can’t help patients who don’t want to be helped.”
*
Jasmine emerged on deck in a disheveled mess. Her father, who’d endured thirty lashes the day before, appeared more ready for work than she did. Roberts swaggered toward them. Jasmine could tell he was going to make the most of this opportunity to make her life hell so she was determined not to give him the satisfaction.
“Seaman Midge,” Roberts said. “I want you to swab the decks. Seaman Brusan, I want you to take your watch duty in the crow’s nest.”
“Aye, sir,” Cook responded.
Jasmine scowled. She had hoped Roberts would give her the watch duty. To spend the time high in the rigging would have been a blessing.
“You have a problem with that, Seaman Midge?”
“No, sir.”
Jasmine found a bucket and a swab without too much trouble. She watched her father climb the rigging. His agility in the lines surprised her for a man whose back had been flayed into ribbons the day before. Even if he hadn’t taken the flogging, his physical size made her think he would struggle in the rigging. She suspected he had more experience in practical sailing than she knew. She vowed that at the next opportunity, she’d ask him about his past. She’d not been curious before, and he’d always been close-lipped about his life before the Prize. Besides, it had been enough to know he beat her and he cooked.
Roberts slapped her up the back of the head. “Stop day dreaming and get to work, dog.”
By calling her that name, Roberts unknowingly made Jasmine feel more at home than she had felt since she was forced to join the crew of the Seahawk.
“Aye, sir,” she said with enthusiasm.
Pushing aside the weakness that burned at the edges of her consciousness, she was able to enjoy the outside air. She hadn’t had enough of the sea breeze or the ocean views the last few days. The chill in the air kept her awake and the occasional patches of sun through the clouds kept her spirit going.
Jasmine mopped the decks twice over before Roberts deemed it acceptable. She was then charged to polish the ship’s bell. When Roberts could see his ugly face in the brass, he put her to work untangling a large wad of netting. Every time he checked on her, he made it clear he looked for an excuse
to beat her. She wasn’t fast enough for him. She wasn’t strong enough for him. She wasn’t skilled enough for him. If she got in anyone’s way, Roberts took the opportunity to clap her up the side of the head.
By the end of her watch, her hand throbbed and the dull ache in her head had begun to ring. When the bell sounded to indicate the change of watch, she packed away the netting.
“Where’d you think you’re going?”
“My watch is over,” she said to Roberts.
He stood over her with his hands on his hips. “Have you finished untangling the nets?”
“No.”
Roberts’ hand flashed out so fast she didn’t see it coming until his fist impacted with her face. She fell backward into a crumpled heap on the deck.
“No, sir,” he corrected. He pulled out the netting, made a show of tangling it up and dumped it at her feet. “You will remain on duty until you unravel this.”
Sitting up, she rubbed her cheek. Exhaustion pushed her to the point of stupidity. She wondered how far she could test the man. “This will take me the rest of the day and probably half the night. I don’t think you have that authority.”
Roberts smiled. “Thank you, Seaman Midge.” He raised his fist and swung it. She ducked and rolled to her feet. Blood rushed to her head and the ship seemed to dip under her. It took her a moment to balance herself. When she did, Roberts knocked the wind out of her with a punch to the stomach. She collapsed to her knees. She expected another blow to her unprotected head. She didn’t have the strength left to evade such a blow. She didn’t think she had the strength to stand.
When the blow didn’t come, she looked up and saw a sight she wouldn’t forget for a long time. With the grace of a whooping crane, her father dropped out of the rigging. No man that large should possess such grace. He caught Roberts’ fist in his meaty hand and they stared at each other with an unspoken challenge.
“My son apologizes for his disrespect,” Cook said. “He’ll complete his assigned duty without no further trouble.”
Roberts’ fury burned like a beacon fire for all to see. Jasmine expected him to turn that fury onto her father. He buried it instead. Maybe he was intimidated by Cook’s size.