Sins of the Sea

by Laila Winters

  He shook his head. “We keep the supplies below deck. It’s easier for Luca to take inventory if everything is kept in one place.”

  Sol’s eyes fluttered as she tossed away the soiled fabric. “What about water?”

  Fynn raised an eyebrow. “Sure,” he said. “Just open the window.”

  The window—the ocean lay just beyond the round, cracked glass window.

  Sol’s Magic had always been one with the sea. It thrummed to life in its presence, had run rampant inside her since she’d first stepped foot on this ship.

  She did not care about the promise she’d made to her brother, not in this moment. What Silas didn’t know would not hurt him, even if it might get Sol killed. Fynn was growing paler by the minute.

  Sol scrambled to the window and meddled with the latch, leaning over the Captain’s chest of clothes. “Take your shirt off.”

  Fynn’s laugh was far from its usual timbre. “How forward.”

  Closing her eyes, Sol held her hand out the window. Magic trickled through her veins and steadied her trembling fingers. “I’m serious,” she said. “Take it off.”

  The bed groaned beneath his weight as Fynn moved. He hissed between his teeth as he took off his shirt and tossed the bloodied fabric onto the floor. “I don’t understand,” he complained. “What are you doing?”

  She took a breath and turned to him, saltwater glistening in her palm. “Helping you.”

  Fynn’s eyes were still glazed as they widened with surprise. “You’re a Wielder.”

  “Lie back down,” Sol instructed. Her voice was not as steady as she’d hoped.

  Fynn did not look away as he laid back down, as he settled amongst the blood-stained fur and pillows. He did not speak as Sol sat on the edge of his bed, her hands again shaking as she held them over the wound. “This might sting a little,” she warned. “The salt—”

  “Have you done this before?”

  Sol wove the water between her fingers, a small display of her skill. “My brother is a soldier,” she reminded him. “I’ve healed his cuts from training.”

  “Healing takes a great deal of power,” Fynn said. “You don’t need to do this. A wound like this, you’ll exhaust yourself. I can wait for Luca.”

  Sol raised her chin and leveled him with a stare she hoped conveyed her confidence. “I can do it.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “All right.”

  She took another breath. Her eyes fluttered as she gently touched his side. Heal him, she pleaded with her Magic. The water in her palms shimmered in the candlelight, bending to the Princess’ will as it sank into the wound and cleaned it.

  Fynn tensed, his muscles contracting beneath her fingertips.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I did warn you.”

  The Captain patted her arm, more for her comfort than his own, and said, “I’m fine.”

  Blood leaked from the wound as Sol’s Magic knitted skin and muscle back together. Fynn squirmed beneath her hands, clenching the blankets as he gritted his teeth and hissed. Sol wished she could do this with more ease, that her Magic was a caressing embrace as she healed him, but she did not have enough practice. Silas’ cuts had always been superficial.

  “Tell me about home,” Sol prompted. Perhaps she could distract him from the pain. “Where are you from?

  Fynn appeared to settle at that. “North.”

  Sol tilted her head. “Northern Irica? From Dyn?”

  “Just North.”

  She would not push if he was not inclined to tell her. Sol had her own secrets, ones that Fynn had not demanded she tell him, and she would not fault him for his. “Tell me about your home, then,” she suggested instead. “What’s it like? I’ve never been north of anywhere before.”

  Fynn was quiet for a moment. “It’s cold,” he said finally. “I’m from a very small village in the mountains. The nights are long, even in the summer, and the lakes nearby stay frozen. My mother called it the City of Ice.”

  Sol noted how Fynn spoke of his mother in the past. Her heart ached for him—for herself as she remembered her own mother, the fate she’d been dealt all those years ago.

  Her Magic pulsed.

  “Do you have any siblings?”

  The necklace beneath her tunic was all the reminder she needed that Isla Rosebone was dead. She did not want Fynn asking questions.

  “A brother,” Fynn told her. “And a sister.”

  “I only have my brother,” Sol provided. “And I miss him terribly.”

  “My sister, Theodosia… I miss her, too. Our brother, however, I could do without.”

  Sol chuckled. His wound was nearly healed now. “Younger?”

  “Older. And he never let me forget it.”

  “Silas is older than me, too,” she said, then cursed her slip of the tongue and prayed that Fynn was not familiar with Sonamire’s royal family. Silas was not a common name, even in her empire. “But he never held it above my head. We were all each other had until he joined the army. I didn’t see much of him after that.”

  Fynn frowned. “I’d imagine he fought in the war, then.”

  Sol’s Magic flared. “Yes,” she said. “He was very young. Maybe twelve.”

  Ten years had not been long enough for Silas to forget the horrors of that war. To forget the scar that still marked his chest from where he’d very nearly died fighting against the Prince of Dyn. Often, he woke with nightmares, and Sol could hear him screaming from her chambers. She prayed that Quint could now offer him the comfort that Sol could not.

  The Captain patted her arm again, his fingers brushing against the solid gold cuff around her wrist. “What about your home?” he asked. “Tell me about it.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. Valestorm was an awful place. You’ve seen it.”

  He shrugged. “You must have had a favorite place to go,” he insisted. “Somewhere you went to escape.”

  Sol lowered her hands from his side. There was nothing left but a thin pink scar to mark the wound’s infliction. “There was a beach,” Sol admitted. “Forgotten amongst the people of Sonamire. I went there often to be alone.”

  With a gentle flick of her wrist, she sent the saltwater, red with Fynn’s blood, shooting across the cabin. It speared through the open window.

  “It was the only place where I could practice my Magic in peace.”

  Fynn sat up carefully, slowly twisting his body as if to test her handiwork. “What do you mean ‘forgotten’?”

  Sol watched him assess his mobility, as he prodded at the scar with his fingers. “During the war, that beach is where the Kingdom of Dyn tried to invade Sonamire. It has a very bloody history, and my people believe it to be cursed. No one goes there because of it.” Sol nervously wrought her hands together as Fynn stretched. “How does it feel?”

  He smiled and lifted his head, his dark hair framing his face. “Better. Thank you.”

  “Luca could have done it quicker, I’m sure.”

  “Maybe, but he’s used to healing gruesome injuries. With some training, I’ll bet you could make a living as a healer, especially in Nedros.”

  Her cheeks heated at the compliment. “Perhaps.”

  “Luca would be more than willing to teach you what he knows,” Fynn offered. “In exchange for your help in the infirmary, of course. The Gods know he’s tired of tending to our stupidity on his own.”

  Sol nodded eagerly. She would love to learn from him, to expand on the gifts that the Gods had so graciously given her. “I’d like that.”

  Fynn was still prodding at his scar as he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you were a Wielder?”

  “Because my brother told me not to,” Sol answered quietly. She toyed with the cuff around her wrist, twisting it until the candlelight shimmered against the moonstones. “He said I wouldn’t be safe if people knew.”

  His expression softened into one of calm understanding. “I get that,” Fynn said. “But you are safe on this ship, Sol. You aren’t the only Wielder
here.”

  Sol hummed with interest. “I know about Riel, and Arden, and you, but what about Gracia?” she asked. “Her brother is a Wielder, but is she?”

  “No, but maybe that’s a good thing. I’m sure you’ve noticed that Gracia is a nervous creature. Give that girl some Magic and she’d blast us all away unwillingly.”

  “Perhaps she has a reason to be nervous,” Sol countered. “I can hardly blame her for being so anxious if she and Luca had it rough before joining your crew.”

  Fynn cocked his head. “That’s fair.”

  Sol toyed with her bracelet as Fynn stretched once more, further assessing her healing. He did not groan with pain, did not double over from his injury. Sol must have done something right.

  “Why do you wear that?”

  Sol blinked at him. “My bracelet?”

  The Captain nodded.

  Sol slid the golden cuff further up her arm to reveal the ruined flesh that lie beneath. Fynn did not balk from her scars, and if he found them unsightly at all, he certainly did not show it. “My brother is a Fire-Wielder,” Sol explained. “He burned me when we were children. On accident, of course, but it was before I discovered I could heal. I wasn’t paying attention and stepped into a busy road, right in front of a horse-drawn carriage. His Magic flared from fear, and he pulled me out of the way.”

  Fynn gently took her hand between his own. She stilled as he traced his thumb over the warped skin. “This is nothing to hide,” he said thoughtfully. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Sol’s heart skipped a beat. Even Silas had always refused to look at what he’d done. “You’re a pirate,” she replied. “You’re only saying that because you want my bracelet.”

  He laughed. “Your bracelet is far too gaudy for me.”

  She returned the cuff to its proper place around her wrist. “Maybe someday I’ll give it to you anyway,” Sol mused. “As payment for taking me to Nedros. It’ll get you far in a port much nicer than Valestorm, and since you wouldn’t take my money…”

  Fynn chuckled. “Only when you’re ready to part with it.”

  The Princess tilted her head.

  “We all have scars, love. Some more visible than others, some deeper.” Fynn raked his fingers through his hair, smearing dried blood through the strands. “But they’re not what define us. They do not make us who we are.” He tapped her wrist with his index finger. “Someday, you’ll wear that proudly. It’s there because you survived.”

  “I survived being trampled by horses.”

  “I didn’t say you survived something epic.”

  Sol rolled her eyes to the beamed ceiling as she fought a smile. “Your wisdom only stretches so far, it seems.”

  Fynn grinned as he swung his legs off the bed. “Wisdom is boring.”

  He rose to his feet, the color having returned to his cheeks as he strode to the chest stacked precariously atop an old wooden crate. Fynn flipped open the lid and rummaged through the clothes inside, procuring a burnt orange tunic that cuffed at the wrists. He pulled it on over his head.

  “I should check on the crew,” Fynn said. “Care to join me?”

  Sol stood to follow him from the room. “I can help with smaller injuries.”

  Fynn frowned. “You must be exhausted,” he mused. “Don’t exert yourself. Let Luca handle the wounded.”

  “I feel fine,” Sol promised. “Healing you didn’t take nearly as much effort as I was expecting.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “If you’re sure.”

  The Princess shuffled to the door. Draven was waiting for her there, his tail wagging as he nuzzled his nose against her palm. “After you, Captain.”

  Fynn snorted. “Please, for the love of the Gods, don’t call me that.”

  Sol laughed and motioned to the door. “As you wish.”

  He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Thank you again for the healing. I owe you.”

  He was swaggering onto the deck before Sol could disagree, before she could tell him that he owed her nothing. She touched her cheek, her freckled skin warm with a rosy blush. No one except family had ever shown her such affection.

  She did not know if she liked it, this strange, fluttering feeling inside her chest that she had never felt before. It was as foreign to Sol as Sol was as foreign to this ship.

  “Come, Draven,” Sol said. “Let’s see if we can be of any assistance.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  FYNN

  The Refuge was unusually quiet.

  Fynn tried and failed to keep his hands from trembling. It had been years since he’d seen this much blood, since the very sight of it had made him want to vomit. If not for his injured crew huddled together below deck, he would have. “Is it too soon to tell if she’ll make it?”

  Luca could barely lift his head, his hair and cheeks stained a gruesome red. “I’ve done what I can,” he said. “My Magic is spent and Arden’s lost too much blood. If Riel had gotten her to me sooner, if I hadn’t healed Amael first…”

  “What about Sol?” Fynn tried. He glanced at his friend on the low-lying wooden table, her arms dangling over the sides. Arden’s cheeks were the color of fresh snow, and her chest was barely rising. “She’s a Water-Wielder. Maybe not as talented as you, but she managed to heal me just fine.”

  The healer rubbed his temples. “There’s nothing she can do, Fynn. The wound is healed. It’s the blood loss and infection that concerns me now, and I can’t say for certain she’ll pull through. Arden is strong, but so was the steel and rust of that blade. She was gutted like a fish to be sold in the market.”

  Fynn winced. “There has to be something we can do.”

  Luca looked up at him from the planks, his eyes half-lidded and spectacles smeared with Arden’s blood. “Give me an hour,” he said. “Let me rest. Until then, there’s nothing else I can do for her.”

  “You’re certain Sol can’t help you?”

  He leaned his head against the wall. “A Wielder Sol may be, but she’s never had any formal training. As much as she might want to help, she may do more harm than good. I’d rather we not test her skills on Arden.”

  Fynn dragged his fingers through his hair. “I’ll send Amael down to sit with her,” he said. “And I want you to get some sleep. Take my cabin, if you want. That pile of hay you call a bed is hardly suitable for resting.”

  Luca closed his eyes. “A generous offer, Captain, but I couldn’t get up if I tried.”

  “I can help you—”

  “I’ve slept on the ground all my life, Fynn. Believe me, here is fine.”

  There was nothing else he could say, nothing left he could offer the healer. Luca lowered himself onto his back and sprawled across the planks, folding his arms beneath his head. It did not look comfortable, and despite the heat that told them they were approaching Dryu, below deck was cursed with a terrible draft.

  “I’ll have someone bring you a blanket.”

  Luca chuckled. “Thank you, Captain.”

  Fynn touched Arden’s hand, gently embracing her cold fingers. But the deckhand had been in worse shape when he’d found her in Valestorm all those months ago. Luca’s Magic could not heal blood loss, but his friend was strong and he did not doubt she’d pull through.

  He’d drag her back from death if she didn’t.

  The planks were still slick with blood when Fynn returned to the deck. His crew was scrubbing them clean, but they were tired and spread thin from the attack. Sol had sent the more serious injuries down to Luca, but she’d healed who she could until her Magic had finally run out. She’d fallen asleep near the Captain’s cabin door and had not stirred since.

  He almost couldn’t believe it—the Princess of Sonamire was a Wielder. But he had heard the stories about Silas, about the Prince of Fire who could burn and rage and cut down their enemies with his flames. He’d seen it himself during the war, when he’d fought side-by-side with soldiers twice his age. Fynn supposed it made sense that his sister might possess that same power, though wate
r had taken him by surprise. Siblings didn’t often Wield different Elements, and he had only seen it once before, a pair of brothers who had Wielded different Magic.

  “Cap!”

  Fynn turned to find Amael limping towards him. His leg was nearly healed, but Riel had carried Arden into the ship’s infirmary before Luca could finish sealing the wound. The boatswain had not cared, and he’d been willing to lose his entire leg if it meant that Arden would live.

  Fynn had damn near kissed him for it.

  “You should be resting,” Fynn chided. “And fortunately for you, Luca needs you down below. He’s sleeping off his Magic and someone needs to look after Arden.”

  Amael’s expression was solemn, his brow furrowed with concern. “How is she?”

  “Not good,” Fynn said. “There’s nothing else Luca can do until he’s rested.”

  “What about our new Wielder?” Amael asked, an edge in his tone that Fynn knew would likely cause trouble. They glanced at the sleeping Princess. “I’ve been chasing Riel away from her for nearly an hour. Can’t she help?”

  “Luca would prefer she didn’t. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

  Amael frowned. “She healed you, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t dying.” Fynn touched his side, tracing over the fresh scar beneath his tunic. Perhaps it would have been him on the table below deck if Sol hadn’t revealed her Magic to him. That sword had cut deeper than he’d realized. “I won’t use Arden as an experiment. Luca will do what he can for her.”

  Amael dipped his chin. “Aye, Captain.”

  Fynn clapped him on the back. “Find any extra blankets you can and give them to Luca and Arden. The last thing we need is either of them catching a cold.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Amael said again. He angled himself towards Sol and crossed his arms over his chest. Fynn held his breath, awaiting some hidden Magic of his own to burst forth and wreak havoc amongst the ship. “She lied to us.”

  “I know,” Fynn said. “But she thought she had no choice.”

  He did not look convinced, his mouth set with a harrowing frown that rounded out the hollows of his cheeks. “There are four other Wielders on this ship, and she truly thought you would kill her for it? You saved her life in Valestorm. Killing her now would be a waste.”