Sins of the Sea

by Laila Winters

  She pinched the bridge of her nose between her index finger and thumb. “I do, Fynn. I do trust you.” Her brow creased as she looked at him. “It’s the Rosebone I don’t trust.”

  “She’s a Princess,” Fynn said, because he was certain that Silas was her brother. “And she’s harmless. If I thought she was a threat to this crew, I would have left her in that port to rot. You know that. I would never jeopardize my family.”

  Because that’s what this ship and his crew were to him—his home and the family that he’d made for himself.

  Riel studied him, a look in her earth-colored eyes that would have sent lesser men running.

  But Fynn refused to balk from her. He did not dare look away. There was nothing about his stone-carved Quartermaster that frightened him. “Trust me.”

  She angled herself towards the Captain and picked at her fingernails. “So where is she now, then? I don’t suppose she’s wandered overboard so soon.”

  Fynn breathed deeply in relief, but he knew this fight was not over. Not yet. “I left her with Amael,” he said. “A dress is hardly practical attire for a ship, so he’s finding her something more suitable to wear. And besides that, she was covered in blood. I thought Gracia might faint if she saw her.”

  “Speaking of blood.” Riel frowned. “That beast of hers. You let that on board? I understand your bleeding heart for all things pretty on two legs, but an animal?”

  “They were a package deal,” Fynn replied. “And I didn’t want my arm bitten off.”

  Riel picked up a knife that Fynn had left abandoned on his desk. A sparkling blue sapphire was pressed into a tarnishing silver hilt. “You should have asked me before you brought her here. If she’d gotten on her knees and begged, and I wouldn’t have turned her away.”

  “I would have asked,” Fynn said. “If you’d been there.”

  The Quartermaster grunted an acknowledgement. “Did you manage to find what you were looking for? Or were you too busy playing the hero?”

  Fynn crudely showed her his middle finger. “Don’t be an ass,” he said. “I am a hero.”

  Riel scoffed. “Was it a wasted trip or not?”

  The Captain grinned, pointing to the canvas sack that he’d shoved into the nearest deckhands arms the moment he’d boarded the Refuge. “It looks like an opal, but it’s not.”

  Riel pocketed Fynn’s knife and pried open the sack. She crinkled her nose as she rummaged through the various crystals. “Don’t you have enough amethyst?”

  Fynn rose to his feet and snatched the chunk of stone from her. “Nope.”

  In the very corner of his cabin sat a small, glittering table with precariously placed crystals and geodes. Fynn swept aside a few of the smaller stones to make room for his new collectibles. He would fiddle with the layout for days until the stones were arranged to his liking.

  “So, is this real?”

  Fynn turned to find Riel studying the small, flat dragon scale that Abel had mistaken for an opal. “I think so.”

  She traced her thumb against the scale’s smooth edge. “It flakes like one.”

  “Yes,” Fynn agreed. “But I didn’t sense any Magic. Do you?”

  Riel closed her fingers around the scale and gripped it tightly in her palm. She was quiet for several moments, her own Magic soft and caressing as she assessed the gem. “No,” she said finally. “But it’s definitely not a stone. My Magic can’t change its shape.”

  Fynn sighed and took the scale. “I’m starting to think that that damned thing is just a myth.”

  “It is a myth,” Riel said. “The story of the Dragon’s Heart is as old as the Irican continent, Fynn. It’s a bedtime story that parents tell their children to help them sleep at night.”

  Indyr, the King of Dragons, protector of the heavens and sky. Blessed with infinite Magic. A single scale was all that proceeded him in death, a relic that the ancients called the Dragon’s Heart. Infused with Indyr’s Elements—Earth, Water, Wind, and Fire—the scale, lost to time, had served as the source of Wielders’ Magic.

  Supposedly.

  A gift it was, indeed, but also a curse. Wars had been waged for that scale, and Fynn knew the stories better than anyone. They were all he had left of his mother.

  “It’s not just a story,” Fynn said, closing his fist around the scale that was not the Dragon’s Heart, but had belonged to a dragon, nonetheless. “Not to me.”

  Riel placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “I know.”

  “The tale of the Dragon’s Heart… I can still hear her voice telling me to find it.” Fynn’s throat bobbed. “She believed in it, and so do I. It’s out there, Riel. This just isn’t it.” He chucked the scale onto the bed. “And if it falls into the wrong hands…”

  Riel’s expression darkened as she repeated, “I know.”

  “I will find it,” Fynn vowed. “I promised my mother that I would.”

  “Good.” Riel shook the dirt from her hands. “Now that we’ve lit a fire under your ass, I think it’s time we rescue your Princess from Amael. He’s probably trying to buy that damned beast from her.”

  Fynn chuckled, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt. “Draven,” he corrected. “But you’re probably right.”

  A grin pulled at her mouth. “Can I be the one to tell her that we sleep on the deck?”

  The Captain laughed. “Sure,” he said. “Ten gold coins says she cries.”

  “Fifteen says she begs for your bed.”

  “Hey,” Fynn said. “I don’t share. Not even with a pretty Princess.”

  “No, just a pretty Prince, apparently.”

  Fynn playfully slapped her arm. “Come on, heathen. We have work to do.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  SOL

  Shards of sparkling ice crusted the Princess’ hair as she curled into Draven’s side. She could not feel her fingers as she fiddled with Silas’ necklace, and despite having buried her face into Draven’s matted fur, her sniffling nose and blue lips were beginning to crack from the cold.

  Sol cursed this ship.

  She cursed the winter and the wind and the sheets of ice that cracked against the ship’s tapered bow. She cursed the ocean that raged with Thymis’ wrath and the frigid saltwater that splashed onto the deck where she lay.

  The Quartermaster had grinned like a wicked cat with a mouse caught between its teeth when she’d given Sol her sleeping arrangements. She had shown her to a wide, empty space near the front of the ship, big enough for both Sol and Draven to comfortably sprawl across the planks, and had left her there.

  Amael, possibly the friendliest person Sol had ever encountered, had scowled and given her an extra blanket, like he’d known this was an awful place to sleep.

  When she and Draven had settled down for the night, starlight flickering above in an inky black sky that merged with the midnight water, Sol had quickly understood why no one else slept here. Ocean water sloshed over the banister, flooding beneath the siren’s outstretched mahogany arms as they dove into the crests of rolling waves. Sol also understood why Amael had given her an extra blanket; not to keep her warm, but to sop up the salt pooling beneath her.

  Sol shivered, and she cursed Riel, too.

  But despite her blatant hostility, Sol found that she enjoyed the ship’s crew, even Riel who thundered over the deck like she owned it. They’d welcomed her with tentative smiles, a skeptical eye, and hands within reach of their weapons, but Sol could hardly blame them for not trusting her. She was a stranger who’d boarded their ship with a mob from Valestorm chasing after her.

  She found she enjoyed Amael the most, who had not told her his own story as he toured her around the ship and prattled on about his crewmates. But if the beautifully wicked scars that sliced down his throat were any indication his life had been rough before the Refuge, then Sol didn’t want to know. But his eyes were bright, his smile brought out the dimples in his cheeks, and his kindness was enough to make her like him.

  Even Draven had licked his h
and when Amael scratched him behind the ear.

  The soft exchange of midnight words floated down to Sol from the quarterdeck.

  Tucking Silas’ pendant beneath her tunic, Sol rolled onto her side and squinted through the dark. Gracia, the girl who’d hidden behind Riel when Amael introduced them, was bidding her Captain goodnight. Her face was tired but grateful, and Fynn had taken her place behind the helm.

  A gust of wind filled the ship’s sails as if to greet him.

  The wooden planks groaned beneath Gracia’s weight as she descended the stairwell from the helm. Sol watched as she scrambled across the deck, calling Riel’s name as she stepped over blanketed bodies. The Quartermaster lifted her head near the mizzenmast, and Gracia hunkered down beside her, curling into the warmth of her arms.

  At least she was kind to someone.

  When she returned her attention to the Captain, Fynn’s hands were cupped over his mouth as he blew hot air into his palms. The temperature was hardly above freezing, but Fynn was dressed in nothing more than a dark blue tunic and pants. He bounced on the heels of his feet, jogged in place to keep his blood warm. He was a fool for dressing so light, for not fearing the hypothermia that would surely settle into his bones by morning.

  Fynn gripped the helm when he was warm enough, and Sol wondered if perhaps his Magic could act as a barrier against the cold. She’d never met another Wind-Wielder, and she did not know the extent of their power.

  The ship rocked gently beneath them, the current less choppy with Fynn at the helm. His dark eyes cut across the deck, bouncing from blanket to blanket, and Sol noted the movement of his mouth as he counted the members of his crew. Seemingly satisfied that no one had been swept out to sea while he’d slept, Fynn angled himself towards the bow.

  He looked at Sol and raised an eyebrow.

  Heat flooded her cheeks; he’d caught her staring. Sol tried to duck her head, but Fynn was already waving his hand and beckoning her to join him on the quarterdeck. She swore beneath her breath and lifted herself up from the icy planks she was curled upon.

  Draven stretched languidly as he stood. His breath was a wispy cloud of white air as he yawned, his canines gleaming in the moonlight. Sol tugged gently at the wet fur matted against the nape of his neck, using him for leverage as they padded across the slick deck.

  “Why are you sleeping near the prow?” Fynn asked.

  Sol clambered up the stairwell with little grace, Draven pressing himself against her knees to keep her from slipping back down. “Your Quartermaster told me to.”

  Fynn snorted. “Don’t let Riel give you orders. Only I give those around here.”

  She pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders. Sol had not seen him since earlier in the day, since he’d stumbled into his cabin to sleep off the strains of his Magic. Amael had not been concerned when Sol inquired about Fynn, had simply called him lazy instead of acknowledging the Captain’s exhaustion. But Sol had worried about him, anyway.

  He looked better now that he’d rested.

  “You can sleep wherever you’d like,” Fynn continued, snapping Sol out of her reverie. “Even below deck, if you’d prefer. It’s much less wet and probably a bit warmer, too.”

  “Does anyone else sleep there?”

  “Luca,” Fynn told her. “And Arden. They like their privacy.”

  Sol shuffled from foot to foot. “Aren’t you cold?”

  Fynn shrugged, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, as if he’d been waiting for such a question. “I’ve spent half my life on this ship, and the cold reminds me of home. Besides,” he said. “I’m the Captain. Frozen fingers come with the job.”

  “You won’t be saying that when you die from hypothermia.”

  “Maybe not,” Fynn agreed. “But at least I have a cabin to sleep in. I give any extra furs and blankets I come across to the crew. They need it more than I do.”

  Sol placed a hand over her heart. “That’s kind of you.”

  Fynn shrugged again. “They’re my family.”

  Family.

  The word clanged through her like the sheets of ice that cracked against the sides of the ship. Her father had promised her hand to an enemy prince, and Silas had sent her away for safekeeping. Sol did not know if she would ever see them again—if she wanted to see her father if ever given the opportunity. But her brother… Silas had risked his own neck to save her.

  She touched the necklace beneath her tunic, the stone’s edge poking into the pad of her finger.

  “I’m sorry I escaped earlier,” Fynn said after a moment. Sol had not realized she’d gone quiet, that she’d dipped her chin and dropped her gaze to the planks. “Magic is taxing, and I used too much.”

  Didn’t Sol know it, the strain and pull of the Magic buzzing beneath her skin.

  “I don’t know if Amael told you, but we’re several months out from Nedros.”

  Sol frowned. He had not. “Oh?”

  “That’s assuming we don’t hit any bad weather, and I have a stop to make first.”

  Her interest piqued, the Princess quirked her head. “Where?”

  “The Dryu Islands,” Fynn said carefully. “Something I’m looking for might be hidden there.”

  Sol had heard of the islands, had read about their ancient volcanoes and jungled forests in her studies. “Dryu,” she mused. “Aren’t the islands home to—”

  “The Dragon Riders,” Fynn confirmed. He looked as if he might be impressed. “Though they don’t actually ride them anymore. Amael is from the main island, but I’m certain he probably didn’t tell you that. You didn’t hear it from me.”

  “He’s a Dragon Rider?”

  Fynn cupped his hands again, huffing air into his palms. He wasn’t even wearing gloves. “No. He doesn’t agree with how the Dryuans train the bloody beasts, and he vowed to never take a whip to one. They exiled him because of it.”

  “For not wanting to hurt an animal?”

  “For being different.”

  Sol gripped the edges of her blanket. Exile—another word that resonated deep inside of her. She supposed she was in exile now, too.

  “What are you looking for on the islands?” she asked. She did not want to think about home, a place she could not return to until Silas invited her back.

  Fynn winked at her. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

  If not for his easy smile, Sol might have believed him. “Oh.”

  Fynn tilted his face towards the sky.

  He studied the twinkling stars above and adjusted the ship’s course accordingly. Moonlight illuminated the strong lines of his jaw and the gentle slope of his nose. It was crooked in a way that Sol knew it had been broken before, the same way Silas’ was bent at an angle that sometimes made his voice a bit nasally.

  Fynn lolled his head towards her and grinned. “Do you often find yourself staring at pretty men?”

  Sol’s cheeks heated with a blush. “I wasn’t staring.”

  “You most certainly were,” Fynn said. “But that’s all right, love. I don’t mind.”

  “And you most certainly are arrogant.”

  His grin did not falter as he laughed. “I prefer the word ‘confident.’”

  The Princess huffed at him, but she found herself smiling for the first time since she’d left Sonamire.

  She and the Captain lapsed into a comfortable silence as Fynn navigated by the stars. Sol wanted to ask him how he did it, how the Captain knew which stars he was meant to follow—if he even followed them at all. He had no compass, no map, nothing else at all but the flickering balls of light that punched through the never-ending sky.

  A gust of wind filled the sails of the ship.

  Sol blinked at him. “You’re a Magic-Wielder.”

  A gentle breeze tousled her braided hair. “What gave you that impression?”

  “Was it dangerous,” Sol said. “To reveal your Magic in Valestorm?”

  The light dimmed from Fynn’s eyes, sputtering out like the darkn
ess had swallowed it up. “Yes,” he told her. “It’ll be months before I’m able to return, though I can’t say I’m in any rush to go back. The guards don’t take kindly to Magic-Wielders.”

  “Why?”

  It did not occur to her until after the word had left her mouth. Sol, as someone pretending to be from the port, should know why.

  But if he caught the fault in her ruse, he did not acknowledge it. “Because they’re envious of what they don’t have.” Fynn hooked his hair behind his ear. “Wielders are snatched up by Sonamire’s army and are offered better positions with higher pay. Those without Magic, like the guards in Valestorm, are left to do the jobs no one wants. Most of them will never leave that port.”

  Sol swallowed. “I never realized. I suppose I’ve always seen the same guards.”

  Fynn shrugged. “Even the King’s own son is a Wielder. A general of his army, too.”

  “Is that common knowledge?”

  Silas led his own legion of Fire-Wielders, though they had not seen combat since the war.

  “I guess it depends on who you ask. I hear things.”

  Sol did not want to think about her brother, of the possibility that it may be years until she saw him again. She removed the blanket from around her shoulders and held it out to Fynn. “Here,” she said. “It’s a bit wet, but I have another one. Amael promised that my cloak would be washed by morning.”

  Fynn frowned at her. “I don’t need it—”

  “It’s freezing,” Sol said. “And I’d prefer you not die before we reach Nedros.”

  He sketched her a playful bow, his dark hair spilling over his shoulders. “I shall wear such a vestment with honor. Thank you, milady.”

  Sol rolled her eyes to the sky. “Goodnight, Fynn.”

  The Captain smiled in earnest and returned his attention to the sea. “Goodnight, Sol. I’ll see you in the morning. And don’t sleep near the bow. To Hell with whatever Riel told you.”