“I need you here,” Fynn said. “You, Arden, and Luca are the only other Wielders on this ship, and I don’t suppose Luca is topside.”
“He’s preparing to tend to any injuries. It takes him time to rally that kind of power.”
Fynn gritted his teeth at the thought.
His own Magic raged beneath his skin, whipping through his veins and leaking into the air with his every shuddering breath. A brutal wind tore at the sails of his ship, straining the lines, but he could not steer them to safety. If they had another Wind-Wielder, there was a chance they could outrun the hunters. But Fynn could not do it on his own, and he could not fight the ocean’s current if their Water-Wielder dragged them back.
“What about the Princess?” Riel asked tersely. “Should I guard her Highness’ door?”
He glanced at the solid slab of oak. Despite Amael having promised him that Sol was safely inside, Fynn had tested the door for himself. He’d yanked on the rusted iron crossbar, had rammed his shoulder against the wood until his skin bruised. The door had not yielded to him.
“Amael is close enough,” Fynn decided. His cabin, tucked beneath the quarterdeck, was flanked by the stairwells that led both up and below deck. The boatswain was poised to fight between them. “I need you with me.”
Riel took a breath and turned to face him fully. “I’m sorry about earlier,” she said quietly. Regret creased her brow. “You know I’m only—”
“Looking out for me.” Fynn said. “I know.”
His Quartermaster raised her chin and offered the Captain her hand. “Family?”
Fynn gripped her forearm and squeezed. “Always.”
A narrow footway thumped against the Refuge’s ornately carved hull. The bounty hunters’ ship was small, its patchwork hull obscured beneath multicolored barnacles. A wooden serpent was carved to strike from the bowsprit.
Fynn exhaled sharply through his nose, and with it came a guttering ocean breeze. “Here we go.”
The gangplank bowed beneath the bounty hunter’s weight as he thundered between the two ships, his hands braced on his hips. He was a head taller than Fynn, his dingy red shirt nearly bursting at the seams as it stretched over the expanse of his shoulders. The sleeves had been torn away to not only reveal the muscled swell of his arms, but the thin black lines that were inked from his wrist to his elbow—a mark for every bounty he’d collected.
Fynn swallowed thickly as he dropped to the deck of the Refuge.
“Who’s the Captain?” the hunter asked. He cracked his tattooed knuckles.
Fynn flinched at the sound as if it were his own bones breaking. “I am.”
This man could crush him without trying, could grind his bones to dust between the calloused pads of his fingers. His top lip curled over rotting, gold-capped teeth as he sneered, “You’re awfully young, boy. You expect me to believe that this here vessel is yours?”
He did not rise to the challenge, did not fall for the bait that was meant to get him killed. “Is there something I can do for you?” Fynn asked instead. “Or is there a reason you’re crowding my ship?”
Six more hunters crossed over the gangplank, their weathered faces as ugly as creatures from the deep. The kind that Fynn saw in his nightmares, the ones that raged in the waters off the coast of Dyn. It was most of their crew, by the looks of it.
Riel bristled as they spread across the deck. She reached for her own weapons, her fingers wrapping around the hilt of her father’s old sword, but Fynn nudged her with his boot. Not yet, he meant to convey. They could not fight them yet. An attack thus far wasn’t warranted, and he would not risk the safety of his crew by provoking them.
“This ship’ll be mine soon enough if you’re hiding anyone I’m looking for.”
Fynn raised his chin with a sense of indignation, his heart near bursting through his chest. “There’s no one here with a bounty.”
“Are you sure about that, boy?” He surveyed the deck with a milky, mud-colored eye. His left eye was covered by a tattered black patch, one that did not hide the scar from the knife that must have gouged it from his skull. “I don’t suppose you’ll let me take a look around and see for myself if you’re lying.”
“No,” Fynn agreed. “I don’t suppose I will.”
The bounty hunter—the Captain, Fynn realized with dread—drew his sword. He traced an appreciative finger along the dented iron blade, his nail as black as the tangled hair piled on top of his head. He thudded towards Fynn and said, “Rumor has it that a long lost Princess of Sonamire was kidnapped from her castle in Tavynea last week.”
Every muscle in Fynn’s body stiffened. “And?”
“And,” he scratched at a dried patch of blood. “I was offered my weight in gold to find her. She’s a special thing, don’t you know? Plenty of people out lookin’ for her.”
“Good deal,” Fynn said dryly. “But the Princess isn’t on my ship. You’ll find that we’re all a bit worthless.”
“Isn’t she?” The Captain quirked his head. “The men from a stranded ship in Valestorm say that they saw her sail away on a ship with a siren prow, and a man that matches your description.”
Fynn snorted. “Roguishly handsome?”
His mouth twisted with a smirk. “And don’t you have the ego to match.”
This time, when Riel reached for her sword, Fynn did not stop her. The waters were deep here, and even if Riel had wanted to call upon her Magic, she couldn’t.
“I am rather confident,” Fynn mused. He tucked his hair behind his ears, wishing he’d taken the time to pull it back. “But I’m sorry to say that I’m not currently harboring any Princesses.”
“Then who’s the bitch you whisked away into your cabin?”
Riel swore as Fynn raised an open palm.
A sharp gust of wind speared for the bounty hunter’s chest. He did not have the time to deflect, to defend, to do anything at all as the Captain’s Magic struck him hard. It would not hold out, not for long, but this man who had threatened Sol Rosebone… Fynn would make him suffer.
The bounty hunter staggered into the railing, his arms flailing wide. He could not breathe against the icy wind that Fynn was shoving down his throat. It filled his lungs, his chest, every space inside his body that Fynn could find to smother. He would not leave this ship. He would tell no one where the Princess of Sonamire might be headed or who it was she traveled with.
“Fynn, look out!”
It was the unabashed fear in his Quartermaster’s voice that had him whirling on his heels, his Magic still bursting from his palms.
Fynn turned in time for the rusted blade of an old sword to pierce through his open left side. It shredded through the fabric of his tunic, but he did not have the time to dwell on the pain as it cut through the space between his ribs.
He slid free the dagger that he’d hidden up the sleeve of his shirt. Fynn skirted around the hunter’s blade and plunged his knife into his chest. The boy gaped, ruby blood bubbling from the corners of his mouth. Fynn did not look at him as the light faded from his eyes, as he tore the blade free and as the hunter crashed to the deck.
The Captain’s heart skipped a beat. Two. His Magic sputtered out inside of him.
He had not killed since the day he’d found Arden in Valestorm. Since the day he’d found her keeper beating her to near-death in that alleyway. Fynn had not thought twice about it then, and he did not regret having saved her. But this boy, this corpse now lying dead at his feet, perhaps he could have saved him, too.
The clash of steel and the heat from Arden’s flames drew him from the musings of his guilt. Fynn turned, his frantic eyes scanning the deck for his crew. Riel was engaged with the Captain of the bounty hunters’ ship, sparks flying from the blade of her sword as she parried his every blow. She did not need Fynn’s help as she bared her teeth and swung her father’s sword.
Amael had not been so lucky.
He’d been forced to one knee, blood gushing from a deep cut across his thigh. Three of
the seven hunters had gone for him, for the door he would die to defend even if he didn’t know why he was defending it. But Amael didn’t have the training that Fynn had, that Riel had, and he was the biggest man on this ship. The hunters had targeted him, pegged him as the largest threat, and it would be their last mistake.
Fynn would slaughter them all for drawing the boatswain’s blood.
He drew his sword and wove through the battling deckhands, through the hunters pouring onto the Refuge. He’d take care of the gangplank soon, would shatter it if he had to, but Amael needed him now.
Fynn drove his sword between the shoulder blades of a hunter poised to strike Amael his death blow. He did not let himself feel, not sorrow nor regret nor satisfaction, as the hunter’s corpse crumbled to the planks at his feet.
Amael squinted up at him, blood and sweat coating his face and lashes. “Thanks, Cap.”
“Get below deck. Now.” Fynn adjusted the grip on his sword and plunged it through the chest of another bounty hunter. He felt the resistance as the blade ground against bone, severed through corded muscle. “Let Luca look at that leg. I’d better not see you topside unless he heals you.”
“I’m not leaving you here.”
Fynn drove his knife through the socket of a hunter’s eye, the jade hilt slick with blood and nearly slipping from his grasp. “I think I’ve got this covered.”
Amael grunted as he climbed to both feet. “I don’t know why I ever doubt you.”
“Go.”
He kept himself positioned in front of Amael, the door, the stairwell. His friend didn’t need to be told a third time, and Fynn found himself slouching with relief when Amael disappeared below deck. One less person to concern himself with.
Pain nearly brought him to his own knees as he twisted to look for Riel. Fynn cursed and gripped his side, blood oozing between his fingers from the cut there. Luca would call him a fool for still fighting, would give him nothing for the pain as punishment for being so stupid. But he had to fight, had kill, had to protect.
A guttural cry from across the deck had him sliding through a puddle of blood, his own wounds forgotten at that scream, one that he had heard once before.
Arden had fallen to the deck, her flames smothered, her trembling hands grasping at the knife that a hunter had thrust through her stomach. Blood soaked the planks beneath her, spilled from the corners of her mouth as she gaped and gasped for air.
Fynn had finally had enough.
He brought his thumb and index finger to his mouth. He whistled once, twice. His crew dropped to the deck.
A blast of wind more powerful than Fynn had ever summoned in one go burst from his position beneath the quarterdeck. Bounty hunters spun through the air, their spines cracking against the mizzenmast, necks breaking over the hull. They tumbled over the sides of his ship.
His deck was eerily silent.
Riel had just begun to lift her head from the planks when Fynn fell against the door of his cabin. He beat his bloodied fist against the wood. “Let me in,” he sighed. Sol yelped from inside. “It’s safe.”
CHAPTER NINE
SOL
She had heard the metallic zing of clashing steel before.
Back home, when the Princess of Sonamire would watch her brother train with his legion of Fire-Wielders, she and Draven would sit beneath the cool shade of the old weeping willows near the sparring pits. Silas was a force to be reckoned with, and he did not need his Magic to defeat the enemies of their empire. Neither did his legion. Sol would watch them train for hours, their swords and spears gleaming in the afternoon sunlight.
But the men Silas trained with were his friends. He trusted them, and they put their faith in him to lead them. Sol had never heard him scream because they’d run him through with their blades. She had never heard him plead for his life. But she had always heard the clash of their swords, the clang of iron reverberating off the castle’s stone walls.
It sounded no different on the sea.
Sol paced the Captain’s small quarters, shuddering as she fiddled with her braid. She could hear them screaming on the deck, could hear the scraping of steel and thuds of bodies hitting the planks beyond the door. She prayed they weren’t the bodies of the crew, the people she had begun to call her friends. Even Riel, who did not hide her disdain, was a name she whispered quietly to the Gods.
If she weren’t so afraid, Sol could have joined them on the deck. She could have helped them fight against the bounty hunters. Her Magic could wash them all away, could drag them down to the deepest depths of the Emerald. The water inside her veins was as wrathful as a storm-churned sea, and she could feel it tingling in her fingertips.
Sol curled her fingers into fists.
She could not summon that part of her. Sol swallowed it down and let her Magic drown beneath her own waves. She had promised her brother that she would not touch her Magic, that she would not give this crew a reason to see her as a threat.
She rubbed at her temples and continued to pace across the room.
The Captain’s cabin was modest. There was hardly enough room for his bed, and the large oak desk that lined the front wall didn’t appear to serve any purpose. But Fynn had made the space his own.
She had not thought him a reader, but bookcases lined the wall across from his bed. The shelves bowed beneath the weight of the ancient tomes he had placed there. A single chest of clothes sat beneath a closed porthole window, and a small round table had been squeezed into the space behind his bed.
Sol traced over the colorful stones that sat there, precariously arranged by the Captain. She picked up a smooth, iridescent stone that felt like a pearl between her fingers. It was beautiful, glinting in every color as she turned it over.
A loud, desperate thump against the cabin door had her dropping the stone onto the table. A terrified cry cracked out of her. She turned from Fynn’s collection of glittering crystals, her Magic surging as her heart sputtered to a stop. This was it—the hunters had come for her. Her new friends lay dead on the deck.
Draven snarled from his position near the door, his hackles raised and claws clicking viciously against the planks. He would protect his charge to the end, would not go down without a fight.
“Let me in.” Fynn’s voice was muffled through the wood. “It’s safe.”
She could not stop herself from rushing to the door and fumbling with the iron lock. The relief that washed over Sol was overwhelming, striking her with the force of some self-summoned tidal wave.
Fynn was still alive.
Beyond the playful spar with his Quartermaster, she had never seen him fight. She did not know what he was capable of, if he could defeat the hunters as easily as he had Riel.
The cabin door swung open.
Fynn stumbled through the threshold, his legs as wobbly as those of a newborn fawn. His tawny skin was pale as he closed the door again behind him, his dark eyes glazed and sweat beading along his brow. He staggered around the Princess, his hand pressed tightly to his side to conceal a wound from her view, but she saw the blood that leaked through his fingers nonetheless.
Her Magic nearly burst from her as she reached for him. “Fynn—”
“The deck is safe.” He collapsed onto the edge of his bed. “But if you’re squeamish, I would suggest waiting here until someone has scrubbed the planks. It’s a bloody mess out there.”
She did not care about the deck. “You’re hurt.”
Fynn settled amongst the furs and closed his eyes. “I’m fine.”
Sol swallowed thickly as she approached him, as she studied his labored breaths. “You’re not fine,” she decided. “I should get Luca.”
“No.” Fynn gently grasped her wrist, his fingers brushing over the burned skin beneath her bracelet. “There are others who need him more. I can wait until he’s finished. Healing is a powerful gift, but it takes a lot out of him. I’d rather he exhaust himself healing the others, then rest. I’ll still be breathing once he’s finished.”
She was careful as she asked, “Would the others still be breathing if Luca tended to you first?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I don’t know.”
Dread coiled in her stomach. “Who was injured?”
“Amael,” Fynn told her. He must have heard her gasp because he squeezed her gently and continued, “He’ll be all right. Someone cut him deep across the leg, but it’s nothing that Luca can’t handle. Arden, however, didn’t fare so well. She was speared through the gut last I saw her.”
Sol stifled another gasp behind her fingers. “Is it a wound Luca can heal?”
His throat bobbed. “I’m sure he can.” Fynn opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling above. “I should have checked on her before I came here, but if I had…”
“They’d all insist that Luca tend to you first.”
“Exactly,” he said. “And Arden needed him more.”
She eyed the blood that was beginning to pool beneath him. Sol had never seen so much of it, had never seen a wound so severe. The Captain’s cheeks were ashen, robbed of their golden glow by the cut he was hiding beneath his hand.
A shuddering breath escaped from her. “Let me see.”
Fynn lolled his head towards her. “See what?”
“The wound, Fynn. Let me see the wound.”
He eyed her thoughtfully as he granted her access to his injury. Sol scowled as she knelt beside him. She pried away the fabric clinging to his skin, his blood crusting beneath her fingernails as she gently prodded at the wound. “This is awful,” she said. The cut ran deep between his ribs. Her Magic surged at the sight. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Fynn scoffed. “I’ve had worse.”
She did not doubt it.
Sol gripped the tattered hem of Fynn’s tunic and quickly ripped off a strip of it. “Sorry,” she murmured. Fynn grunted an acknowledgement as she dabbed at the wound to wipe away the blood still flowing there. He groaned. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “Is there anything here I can clean it with?”
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