Sins of the Sea

by Laila Winters

  The Princess was inclined to agree.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FYNN

  Warmer seas meant that the crew of the Refuge had finally woken in good spirits. West of the Irican continent, the Dryu Islands were known for their eternal summers and the blistering heat Amael claimed could melt the flesh from one’s bones.

  Fynn was not prepared for their arrival, for the hostile natives to approach his ship with whips and spears and demand that Amael be handed over.

  He braced his arms against the railing of the quarterdeck, watching his crew down below. They were bustling about the deck and tending to their morning duties: cleaning the lines, scrubbing the planks, watering the small garden near the mizzenmast that Riel often tended to with her Magic. Fynn could not remember the last time he’d seen them so jovial, their laughter infectious as they pushed and shoved and romped about the deck with grins as wide as the sea. Even Arden was smiling faintly from the rigging, her head tipped back as the sunlight warmed her cheeks.

  The violent retching from the prow of the ship did not seem to deter them.

  “She’s been here for three weeks,” Riel mused. She was perched on the banister next to Fynn, her long legs dangling over the edge of the quarterdeck. “You’d think she’d be through with this by now. I’m tired of listening to her vomit all day.”

  Fynn rolled his eyes to the endless sky above. “If I recall, Gray only recently stopped hurling up her guts every hour. You were far more patient with her.”

  “I like her.”

  “You have no reason not to like Sol.”

  Riel cleaned the dirt from beneath her fingernails with the sharp point of a knife. “She’s more trouble than she’s worth.”

  Fynn angled himself towards her and sighed. “How?”

  “The Rosebone family is known for that ugly red hair of hers, which isn’t exactly common outside of Sonamire. She sticks out like a sore thumb. Once people realize she’s missing, and if we’re caught with her…” Riel glanced at the deck below, but it was not Sol her eyes lingered on. Gracia was helping Amael coax the Princess through her heaving. “She’s not the one that’ll pay the price.”

  The Captain ran his fingers through his own hair. “I don’t know why she ran away, and I doubt she’ll ever tell me, but I could not leave her in that port, Riel. We’ve been through this.”

  “Yes, because you’re such a noble hero.”

  Fynn contemplated shoving her over the rail. “I’ll make a deal with you.”

  His Quartermaster quirked an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

  “Fight me.”

  Riel grinned at him. “You won’t win.”

  Fynn retrieved a dented metal sword from an iron canister nailed to the helm. The bronze pommel was cool against his skin, a welcomed contrast to the stifling heat as the sun rose high above the sea. But as his fingers found their grip, as he grasped the weapon with a familiarity that would later haunt him in his sleep, Fynn found himself regretting this challenge.

  He hated this sword, hated that he knew what to do with it. Where to strike. How to kill his Quartermaster in ways she could not fathom.

  Fynn beckoned her down from the banister. “I will win,” he said. “And when I do, you have to stop complaining about Sol. You have to be nice to her.”

  “And when I win,” Riel said, sliding off the railing. “Your Princess either walks the plank or we abandon her in the next port to become someone else’s problem.”

  He squeezed the hilt of his sword. “Deal.”

  Riel pulled her own sword from the bin, twirling it with an elegant flourish. “Deal. But no Magic. Swords only.”

  Fynn snorted. “Like I’d need Magic to beat you.”

  The Quartermaster lunged for her Captain with a battle cry. Fynn twisted out of reach, his heart slamming against his ribcage. Too easy. It was far too easy for him to fall into old ways as he raised his sword and parried Riel’s blade.

  The clash of steel roused the attention of their crew, sparks igniting between the metal.

  He pressed her forward with the flat of his blade and backed Riel towards the stairwell. He fought her down onto the main deck, the steps too narrow for either of them to properly spar.

  The crew of the Refuge circled around them.

  Amael cupped his hands around his mouth and cried, “Take her down, Cap!”

  This earned him a vicious swing of Riel’s sword, the flat of her blade slapping hard enough against his shoulder to leave a bruise.

  “Please don’t kill each other,” Luca groaned. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Gracia pumped her fist into the air. “Get him, Riel!” Fynn stuck his tongue out at her.

  “Shouldn’t we stop them?” Sol was half hidden behind Amael, her face still a bit green.

  “They do this all the time,” Amael told her, rubbing his shoulder where Riel’s blade had struck. “They’ll be fine. My money is on Fynn.”

  Panting for air, Riel turned to Amael and pointed the blade at his chest. “Watch it, swabbie, or I’ll mop the deck with you next.”

  Fynn knocked her blade away. “Funny,” he mused. “Weren’t you the ship’s swab when I came aboard? Amael has always been the boatswain.”

  “What’s a boatswain?” Sol asked Amael.

  Riel charged at Fynn as Amael explained that his job was to maintain the ship.

  He did not know how long they fought, but sweat was glistening at his brow when Fynn finally sent Riel crashing to the planks. She gaped at him as she gasped for air, her eyes wide and chest heaving for breath.

  Fynn hovered the tip of his sword above her throat. “I win.”

  Riel pounded her fists against the deck. “That was a cheap shot!” She cried. “You can’t just sweep my feet out from under me.”

  The Captain grinned. “I sweep plenty of people off their feet.” Fynn moved his sword and offered Riel his hand. “Good fight, but a deal’s a deal.”

  Riel gripped his fingers and let Fynn pull her to her feet. She clapped him on the shoulder and took his sword when he extended it to her. “She can stay,” Riel conceded. “But this doesn’t mean that I like her. She’s still a threat to this ship.”

  Fynn pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I know.”

  Riel scowled and wiped off her face. She spun on her heels and left Fynn standing near the mizzenmast, Gracia jogging to join her as she retreated to the quarterdeck. She looped her arm through Riel’s elbow, rising onto her toes to kiss her chin. Riel allowed the affection.

  “See, I told you. Rule number one on this ship: never underestimate the Captain.”

  Fynn raised an eyebrow as he turned to look at Amael. His thickly muscled arm was slung over Sol’s shoulder, but the Princess was not looking at him. Her head was tilted curiously to one side, and she was staring at the Captain like he was a tome in need of being studied, a map she could not navigate, but wanted to.

  “You were betting on me?” Fynn asked. He did not like the way she looked at him.

  “You’ve had formal training.”

  Fynn lifted his chin, his fingers curling reflexively at his sides. “What makes you say that?”

  Sol wrung her hands together. “My brother,” she told him, the confirmation that Fynn had been waiting for. “Is in the army. I used to sit for hours and watch him train with his men. You fight just like they do.”

  He swallowed thickly, the scab from an old wound that would never truly heal peeling away from his heart. He was always left raw and bleeding these days. “The previous Captain of this ship was an ex-General from Jadoa. He taught me how to use a sword.” Fynn cleared his throat as his sorrow began to get the better of him. He would not dishonor Vasil’s memory by falling into a pit of despair. He had already disgraced him enough. “Did your brother ever teach you to wield a weapon?”

  The Princess shook her head. “No,” she said. “He never had the time.”

  Fynn frowned. “Not even a knife?”

  “No.”

&
nbsp; “A bow?”

  “No.”

  “A spear? Anything?”

  Sol wrapped her arms around herself. “No. Nothing. He did not have the time.”

  The Captain heard the truth that lie unspoken in her words: she had not been allowed to train despite any desire she might have had. As a Princess of Sonamire, an empire that prided itself on tradition, it would have been far too unladylike, too improper, for Sol to learn how to fight. King Avedis would have sooner hung himself in the town square than let his daughter traipse through their infamous sparring pits with a weapon.

  Taking a breath, he prayed that he did not regret this.

  “Riel,” he called across the deck.

  His Quartermaster leaned over the banister. “What do you want, pretty boy?”

  “Bring me back those swords.”

  Sol caught him off guard when she gripped his arm and tugged him around to face her. “I’m sorry,” she said. Her hazel eyes were as round as the golden coins that jangled in the Captain’s pockets. “Perhaps you misunderstood me. My brother didn’t have the time to train me, but he’d have found the time had I asked him to. I don’t want to—”

  “If you hope to survive in Nedros, self-defense is a necessary skill to have.” Fynn gently pulled himself free. “I won’t take you there unless you learn to defend yourself.”

  Her cheeks flushed pink with shame. “You’ll only be wasting your time.”

  “I’ll say.” Riel thudded over the planks with a sword grasped tightly in each hand. “Trying to train you is as useless as—”

  “Riel, darling, remember our deal.”

  Riel gave Sol a saccharine smile. “Sorry,” she said. “You’ll do great.”

  Sol looked as if she might vomit again.

  Fynn snatched both swords from Riel before she could speak another word. He kept the flimsier weapon for himself, the thin silver blade scratched and chipped from several years of sparring, and handed the sturdier sword to Sol. She nearly dropped it, either from inexperience or utter repulsion, Fynn couldn’t be certain.

  “Hold it with both hands,” he instructed. “Like this.”

  He gripped the pommel of his sword, one broad hand above the other, his thumbs pressing tightly into the metal. Fynn angled his body to show her. Sol swallowed noisily as she observed, as she moved her hands to grasp the sword as he did.

  “Good,” Fynn praised. “Now shift your feet apart.”

  The heels of Sol’s leather boots scraped over the deck as she shuffled her feet apart.

  “A little further,” Amael offered. “And don’t stand so stiffly. Bend your knees a bit.”

  “This is silly,” Sol lamented. She bent her knees. “I’m not a fighter.”

  “Not yet,” Fynn agreed. “But you will be. Lift your sword up higher.”

  The Princess did as she was told, her face beginning to turn green.

  Riel cackled a cruel laugh that Fynn wanted to slap her for. She moved to stand near Amael, her tattooed arm slinging around his waist as if she hadn’t just hit him with a sword. “This should be good.”

  Amael elbowed her in the ribs. “Don’t be a bitch, Ri. Fynn kicked your ass, too.”

  Laughter erupted from the Captain as he nudged Sol’s sword with his own, forcing her to lift the blade higher. Even with the space between them, he could tell her hands were shaking. “He has a point,” Fynn said to Riel. “Now hush if you’re not going to be helpful.”

  “Three weeks on this ship, and suddenly she’s everyone’s favorite.”

  “Maybe if you weren’t so rude,” Sol suggested glumly. “People would like you, too.”

  Riel’s mouth dropped open, and that was fury simmering in her eyes. She stepped towards Sol as if to strike her, her fingers curling into a fist, but Amael gripped the back of her shirt. His laughter sent the seagulls perched on the ship’s sails scattering. “So little Red does have a backbone.” He grinned. “Fynn, I vote that we keep her.”

  The corners of Fynn’s mouth twitched, and even Sol seemed to brighten at his words. “She has my vote as well. Should we take a tally amongst the crew? I hear Luca is fond of her, too.”

  “Funny,” Riel snarled. “Because last I checked, a ship was no place for a—”

  Fynn silenced her with a hooded glare, his eyes as sharp as the blade he gripped in his hand. “Finish that sentence, Riel, and it’s you that I’ll leave in the next port.”

  She scoffed and crossed her arms. “Like Hell you would, little brother.”

  Amael angled himself between them. “All right, children. Now isn’t the time to—”

  “Captain!”

  Fynn whipped around to find Gracia half slumped over the quarterdeck banister, her dark blonde hair a stream of gold behind her. “There’s another ship!” she cried, flailing her arms above her head. “Dark blue sails!”

  Fynn cursed, wicked and low and filthy.

  “What does a blue sail mean?” Sol asked. She dropped her sword and shuffled closer to Fynn.

  “They’re rogue bounty hunters,” Riel said curtly. “They’re always looking for a prize, for people with bounties on their heads that they can turn over to city guards. If they see us—”

  “You know damn well they have.” Fynn turned to Amael and gently nudged Sol towards him. “Take her to my cabin.”

  The Princess’ direwolf emerged from where he lay sprawled in the wake of a shadow. He pressed himself beneath Sol’s palm, his hackles raised as if he sensed her fear.

  Sol met Fynn’s stare as Amael took her arm. “Can’t I help?”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. The thought of her on this deck when the hunters arrived, when he knew in his heart what they were searching for, made his stomach flip. “You’ll only make matters worse.”

  The bounty for a runaway Princess… Fynn could not fathom the amount of gold that Avedis must be offering for her return.

  Her mouth dropped open, and Sol’s fingers twitched at her sides. “Are you sure—”

  “Captain, they’re close! They’ve got a Magic-Wielder!”

  Fynn cursed again. “Get into my cabin and stay there,” he told Sol. “Do not come out until I come for you.”

  Sol’s eyes shone with fear as depthless as the sea, a fear so palpable he felt it deep in his own bones. Her bottom lip trembled despite her attempts to steady it between her teeth.

  Fynn reached for her hand and gave her a gentle squeeze. “We’ll be fine,” he promised. “We’ve all been trained how to fight.”

  She did not look convinced as she gripped his hand hard enough to leave crescent-shaped cuts across his palm. “Even Gracia?”

  “Especially Gracia,” Riel snapped at her. “Get your ass into the cabin.”

  Amael wrapped his arm around Sol’s shoulders. “You’ll be safe there,” he vowed. “Nothing can get through that door. But we need to prepare for the ship to be boarded by the hunters. We keep all our weapons below deck.”

  Perhaps it was the way he smiled at her, his dimpled cheeks a sigil of calm in the chaos, but Sol dipped her chin and let Amael lead her away. Her steps were staggering as she and the boatswain disappeared into Fynn’s cabin.

  Fynn waited until she was safely inside, until Amael had closed the heavy wooden door and checked to ensure that Sol had locked it from within. He expelled a breath through his nose as his boatswain began barking out orders, his eyes fluttering shut as a brutal wind filled the sails of his ship.

  “You think we can outrun them?” Riel asked.

  “No,” Fynn answered. “But the more distance between us, the more time we have to prepare.”

  A muscle ticked in Riel’s jaw. “You think they’re here for her?”

  “I pray to the Gods that they’re not.”

  He would slaughter them all if they were.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  FYNN

  The blue-sailed bounty hunters hailed from no kingdom in Irica—they hailed from no kingdom at all. A band of seafaring mercenaries, th
ey served no King except those who paid generously for their services.

  As he sharpened the chipped blade that Riel had given him, Fynn silently prayed to Thymis. He begged her to sink their ship, to drag the hunters down to the bottom of the sea and let their corpses rot amongst the reefs. The Goddess had always been kind to him. She had always given him what he asked.

  But she did not listen to him now.

  Fynn pushed his sword through the dark leather scabbard tied around his waist. The enemy ship was fast approaching, and his own had been thrust into chaos. Amael had managed to wrangle their younger, more frightened deckhands below deck, and Riel had spent the better part of half-an-hour arming whoever was willing to fight. The scowl on her face told the Captain it was not many.

  Discarded weapons lay strewn across the deck, swords and knives and spears that no one would use. Arden was hastily collecting them lest they be gathered up and wielded by the hunters, but Fynn snatched up a sparkling dagger before she could carry it away. He twirled it between his fingers and brushed his thumb over the cracked hilt forged with jade inlays.

  He would plunge this blade into someone’s heart if necessary. Those who threatened his crew did not walk away unscathed.

  “Cap,” Amael called.

  Fynn turned to find Amael dangling from the rigging, his hand shielding his eyes as he stared into the horizon and frowned. “How much longer do we have?”

  “Five, maybe ten minutes. They have a Water-Wielder. They’re shaping the currents to move faster.”

  The Captain cursed beneath his breath. “Get your ass down from there and guard the stairwell. They do not make it below deck.”

  Amael unraveled himself from the tethered lines and climbed his way down to the deck. He took up his position near the stairwell, touching the hilt of an old, battered sword Riel had given him. Amael would not let the hunters near those stairs if he could help it, and Fynn would thank the Gods for him later.

  “I sent Gray below deck.” Riel planted herself next to Fynn as the bounty hunters’ ship drifted into firing range. If Fynn were better trained with a bow, he’d pick out their Captain and shoot an arrow through his heart. “She was panicking. I can take up the helm, if you want.”