“I know.” Sol’s voice was tight with panic. “I know.”
Fynn’s Magic flared, but he choked off his wind before it could tear through the cabin. “Let’s go back to the ship,” he offered. “There’s nothing here that we need.”
“What about the others?”
“Riel is more than capable of pillaging this ship and making it back on her own. She and the others don’t need me.” Fynn motioned to the door with a broad sweep of his hand. “After you, milady.”
Sol inched past him without another word, her bottom lip just beginning to tremble. She ducked beneath the threshold and disappeared onto the deck, her braided hair a flash of red in the wind. Fynn stilled as she left him there alone, his mind wandering into far too dangerous territory.
Who did the Captain need to kill for instilling such fear in Sol Rosebone?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SOL
Thane Grayclaw was not a name that had crossed her mind since Sol had fled from home. Her betrothal to the Crown Prince of Dyn had not seemed real when Silas had sent her away, and it hardly seemed real to her now.
But it was.
She was only on this ship because her freedom had been promised to a tyrant, because Sol’s life had meant more to her brother than peace between Sonamire and Dyn.
Had Silas not told her to flee, she would certainly have been married by now. Thane was not known for his patience, and had he decided that Sol was fit to be his bride, he’d surely have insisted they be wed. He would one day need an heir to his throne, and Sol was meant to be nothing more than the one who birthed his children.
He’d have certainly beaten her, too, if the rumors of his nature were anything at all to judge him by. Perhaps if her hair were a single strand out of place, or if her dress were a color he did not like. Silas had once told her that he’d seen the Prince of Dyn murder a young boy for accidentally stepping on his shoes.
Sol did not have faith that his wife would be exempt from his cruelty.
She sat on the edge of Fynn’s bed, her trembling fingers fiddling with the chain around her neck as the Captain rummaged through his things. He was digging through a small, ornately carved box that sat in the center of his crystals, the items inside clinking together like a hoard of delicate bells.
When Fynn found what he was looking for, he sat on the floor in front of Sol. “Have you ever seen a dragon?”
The Princess furrowed her brow. “No,” she said. “But my father and brother told me about them. During the war, father said that the Kingdom of Dyn used them to obliterate Sonamire’s army. Have you seen one?”
Fynn splayed his fingers to reveal what he held in his hand. “I have.”
Sol gasped as she slid off the bed, clambering to her knees in front of Fynn. “Where did you find that?” she asked. The dragon scale, no larger than a small, sparkling stone, shimmered in the Captain’s hand. “These are rare beyond the Dryu Islands.”
“I have several of them,” Fynn said. He pressed the scale into Sol’s palm. “This one is one of my favorites. Amael said it’s from a Dryuan Whiptail.”
The obsidian-colored scale was warm against Sol’s clammy skin. It thrummed with life between her fingers, like the dragon who’d shed this scale was still alive and raging over the land on Dryu. The edges were rough and jagged, weathered with age and from the elements.
“It’s beautiful,” Sol mused. She traced her thumb over the scale. “Did Amael give this to you?”
Fynn shook his head. “I bought it from a man in Nedros who thought it was a piece of agate.”
“How do you know it’s not?”
He took the scale and scratched his thumbnail along the edge. Small, sparkling black shavings drifted from the scale and scattered across the planks between them. “Agate doesn’t flake,” Fynn explained. “And neither do most other stones. Not with a fingernail.”
“Do you collect them?” Sol asked. “Were you looking for more in Valestorm?”
“Yes.” He gave the scale back to her. “But I’m looking for one in particular.”
Sol frowned as she studied the scale, as she traced its shape with her thumb. “There’s one in particular worth finding?”
Fynn pulled his knees against his chest. He was quiet, silence gripping him in a way Sol was unaccustomed to when it came to him. She lifted her eyes to find him biting at his bottom lip, his face drawn with uncertainty. “Have you ever heard stories of the Dragon’s Heart?”
In all her lessons with private tutors in Sonamire, Sol had never heard of such a thing. And if Silas had known such a tale, it was one her brother had never shared with her. “What’s that?”
A guttering breeze tousled her tangled braid. “The Dragon’s Heart,” Fynn began. “Is the source from which all our Magic originates.”
Sol glanced at the scale she held, a relic teeming with life. “Tell me more.”
The Captain sighed, like some horrible weight had finally been lifted from his shoulders. His eyes brightened with such shameless mirth, and Sol knew that this story excited him. Had no one ever listened to him tell it?
“When the Ancients were still settling in this world,” he started, speaking as if he were reciting the lines of an old narrative. “When Ealdyr was shaping our lands and Thymis filling our seas, dragons ruled over the skies. It was their home, as the ground is ours, and we lived together in peace.” He dropped his chin against his knee. “But they were powerful, magical beasts that the Ancients eventually grew to envy.”
“I’ve never heard of dragons possessing Magic.”
“Because they don’t anymore,” Fynn told her. “The Ancients bred the Magic out of them, then clipped their wings and banished them to the Dryu Islands. The Dryuans were tasked with keeping them there, crippling them so they couldn’t escape.”
Her heart ached, heavy as the ship’s anchor as it sank low in her chest. “Why?”
“Because although they wanted their power, the Ancients feared it, too. As peaceful as the dragons might have been, the Ancients were afraid that someday that peace would end in bloodshed—and it did.” Fynn’s nostrils flared, the light dimming from his eyes. “They’re not so peaceful anymore.”
Sol absently reached for Draven. She threaded her fingers through his fur, tugging gently at the coarse hairs until he dropped his head into her lap. “What’s the Dragon’s Heart?” Sol asked, gripping the scale in her fist. “Where did it come from?”
“The Dragon’s Heart is a single scale from Indyr, the first of the dragons.” Fynn took a breath, hesitantly reaching for Draven. The direwolf opened one sleepy eye and looked at him, huffing contentedly as Fynn brushed a hand down his back. “The Ancients wanted him dead. His Magic and strength were infinite, and they feared him most of all. Should he ever decide that the skies were no longer enough, Indyr could have wiped the Ancients from existence. But he was peaceful. He had no qualms with mankind.”
Sol swallowed. “Did they kill him?”
“Yes.” He scratched Draven behind his ear. “But before they speared him through the heart, there was a woman who tried to save him. One who fought against her people and tried to insist that Indyr wasn’t a threat. The Ancients killed them both, but not before Indyr gave her the gift of his Magic.”
“The Dragon’s Heart?”
Fynn nodded, smoothing down the fur that jutted from the nape of Draven’s neck. “Indyr thought it might save her, but she couldn’t control his Magic. The scale contained too much of it, and she wasn’t a natural-born Wielder like we are.
“But she gave the scale to her son; made him promise her to keep it safe and to someday learn how to Wield it. The Gods only know if he did, but he certainly found a way to infuse the Magic into our bloodlines.”
The scale sparkled between her fingers. “How do you know that the story you tell is true?” Sol asked. “Where did you hear such a tale?”
His eyes flashed. “My mother believed in the Dragon’s Heart.”
There was a pa
rt of her that wanted to reach for him, to let him know he was not alone.
Sol was starting to forget her own mother. She could not recall the sound of her voice or what it felt like to be wrapped in her arms. But she carried that loss with her always, in her heart and in the chain around her neck. She reckoned that Fynn did, too, and she wondered if he were lucky enough to have something of his mother’s to remember her by.
Even Draven seemed to still at Fynn’s words, his quiet breaths catching in the back of his throat. The direwolf lifted his head. He assessed Fynn with silver eyes before nuzzling his nose into the Captain’s open palm. “Does this mean you’ll finally stop growling at me?”
Draven snarled half-heartedly.
Sol flicked his ear and he returned his head to her lap. “Is your mother who told you these stories?”
Fynn raked his fingers through his hair. “She told me of the dragons every night. Of Indyr and the woman who tried to save him. She believed that the Dragon’s Heart is out there, and like the boy who promised to keep it safe, I promised my mother I would find it.”
She let his words sink into her.
Such a cruel task for a mother to give her son. If Fynn were anything like Silas, who’d sworn to their mother he’d protect Sol until his dying breath, he would not forgive himself if he never found the Dragon’s Heart.
But there were matters at hand far more harrowing than Fynn’s disappointment should he fail this final request.
“Why would you want the Dragon’s Heart?” Sol asked quietly. “Why do you need that kind of power? If what you say is true…”
His eyes widened as if realizing some grave misconception. “I don’t need that kind of power,” Fynn explained. “But neither does anyone else.”
The scale was slick with saltwater summoned from her Magic’s anxious thrum. It slipped through her fingers and clattered against the planks between them. “If it’s missing,” Sol mused. “Perhaps it should stay that way.”
“It won’t stay missing for long,” Fynn countered. “The King of Dyn is looking for it.”
Sol’s heart skipped one beat, two, sputtering to a painful stall inside her chest. Her blood was ice in her veins, frozen by the Magic that guttered there. “King Caidem?”
“Yes.” Fynn reached for the discarded scale and clenched it tightly in his fist. “I suppose you’ve heard the rumors about the Grayclaw family. How ruthless and cunning and cruel they are.”
She could not breathe, not with this new information, this new threat that Sol suddenly found herself at the center of. Such vast power in the hands of a man so cruel… He could easily wipe Sonamire from existence.
Her fingers shook as she pulled them through Draven’s fur, the direwolf alert and looking at her. His eyes met the Princess’ gaze, and Sol swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’ve heard more about the Crown Prince than I have Caidem,” she told him. “I’ve heard that he’s a terrible man.”
Warm air filled her aching lungs. By the way his brow had creased, Sol knew that Fynn was behind the Magic coaxing her body to breathe. If she weren’t so embarrassed that he’d had to help her at all, she’d have thanked him.
“Thane Grayclaw is the worst of them,” Fynn confirmed. “And I’m certain he’s looking for it, too.”
She shuddered. “Why do they want the Dragon’s Heart? What would he do with it?”
“I don’t know,” Fynn confessed. “But I will not let them find it first.”
Sol inhaled with Fynn’s silent assistance. “How do you know they want it?”
“I have a friend in Dyn who works in the palace.” A muscle ticked in the Captain’s jaw. “She overheard Caidem and Thane talking about the tales I once told her. I meet with her in Knamelle every couple of months to see if she’s learned anything new.”
“What would you do with it?” Sol inquired. “If you found it before the Greyclaws.”
“I’d take it to the middle of the Emerald and throw it overboard.” Fynn took a breath of his own. His Magic withdrew from Sol’s lungs, a soothing warmth left in its wake that calmed her trembling power. “No one would ever find it at the bottom of the sea.”
“Just the creatures who dwelled there.”
Fynn tossed his scale onto the bed behind Sol. “Maybe the sea itself will learn to harness its power. Maybe Thymis will claim it for herself.”
Sol’s stomach churned. “You shouldn’t say such things to the girl who’s not yet had the chance to win Thymis’ favor.”
His grin brought out the dimples in his cheeks. “Don’t worry,” Fynn said. “Thymis has loved me since the moment I stepped foot on this ship. Should she cast her rage upon the Emerald, the safest place on the sea is the Refuge.”
A small laugh bubbled out of her.
Sol fiddled with Draven’s ear until he huffed at her. “You don’t want the Dragon’s Heart for yourself?”
Fynn’s lips thinned to a line of hard absolution. “No,” he answered firmly. “No one should Wield that kind of power. Especially me.”
A fair answer, Sol decided. One that she would not press. “Is that why we’re going to Dryu, then?” she asked instead. “To see if they have the scale?”
“The island’s Elder, Nero, is an absolute bastard. Amael doesn’t think he has it, but he may have a clue as to where it might be.” Fynn stretched his arms before sprawling his legs out in front of him. “I’ve gone back once to try and speak with him, but it was too soon after Amael had been exiled. They tried to kill him for returning.”
“Is it safe for him to go back now?”
Fynn shook his head. “Amael won’t be joining me on the island.”
Sol blanched. “Will Riel?”
He raised an eyebrow. “No. My crew will stay on the ship.” Fynn must have sensed her growing concern because he continued, “I won’t risk their lives over something that may not exist. The Dryuans don’t like outsiders, especially those harboring one of their own. The last time we visited, I took a spear to the chest that was meant to kill Amael. I won’t make that same mistake twice. I go alone.”
Sol scrambled onto her knees and pushed Draven from her lap. “You what?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t ask about the scar when you were healing me.” Fynn touch the center of his chest. “It’s right here.”
There was a part of her that wanted to slap him for being so casual about a wound that could have killed him. “Of course I didn’t ask about the scar,” Sol shrieked. “I was busy making sure you didn’t die!” She shuffled closer and braced her hands on his knees. Terror shot up her spine for the man who had risked so much for her. “You can’t go there alone, Fynn. I won’t let you. At least take Riel.”
Fynn snorted. “If I take Riel with me, we’ll both die. As I’m sure you’ve learned these past weeks, she has a hard time keeping her mouth shut.”
She shook her head so feverishly that her braid slapped against her cheek. “Then—then I’ll go with you,” Sol decided. Fynn opened his mouth to argue, his shoulders squaring as if he’d had this conversation before, but Sol did not dare let him speak. “You can deal with Nero on your own, but we’re both Wielders, and I’m a healer. Should things go bad, I can—”
“No.” Fynn pressed against her shoulders, easing her down off her knees. “Dryu is dangerous, Sol. Even with their wings clipped and magicless, the dragons are a force to be reckoned with. Those scars down Amael’s neck? How do you think he got them?”
“I don’t care,” Sol argued. “Let their dragons come for me. You cannot go on your own.”
“It’s too dangerous—”
“I don’t care,” she repeated. Sol could not believe his gull, his desire to do something so reckless. “If it’s too dangerous for me, it’s too dangerous for you.”
His playful smirk was a beautiful, maddening thing that Sol had grown fond of these past weeks. “Careful, Sol, or I might start to think you actually like me.”
Sol sputtered, a thousand words on the tip of her tong
ue as her cheeks heated with a blush, and said, “If you die, who will take me to Nedros?”
The Captain sobered, his smile cleared away and replaced by such painful sorrow. “If that’s your only concern,” he said, his voice unusually quiet. “I’ll make Riel swear to take you there. If anything were to happen to me, this ship belongs to her.”
Wrong—that look on his face was wrong. Sol could not bear the sight of his downturned eyes or the frown now pulling at his mouth. His shoulders caved in around him, a shroud of defeat from a blow Sol had not meant to deal him.
“Fynn, I didn’t mean—”
Amael did not bother to knock as he crashed through the cabin door, panting and bracing his hands on his knees. His face was ashen, and Fynn was on his feet before the boatswain could speak. “What happened?”
“Arden,” Amael wheezed. “She’s come down with a fever.”
Sol’s stomach twisted at his words. “Is that something Luca’s Magic can heal?”
As if he’d only just noticed her, Amael eyed her warily. “No,” he said. “Luca can only heal physical ailments, not an illness, and nothing he’s given her has managed to break her fever.”
“What does he need?” Fynn asked. “We’re closer to the Jadoan coastline than we are the islands. We’ll stop in Arrowbrook.”
“He’s written a list,” Amael told him. “Arden needs medicine, not herbs.”
Fynn rubbed at the tension in his jaw. “Tell Gracia to steer us southeast. Will Arden last through the night? We won’t arrive until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.”
Amael’s face was grim. “Luca doesn’t seem hopeful.”
The Captain’s eyes fluttered as a wind tore through his cabin. “Tell Gracia to steer us southeast,” he said again. The opposite direction of Nedros. “I’ll get us to Jadoa by morning.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FYNN
Exhaustion pulled at every part of him as he sagged against the helm, his body near dead-weight from exertion. Fynn could not remember the last time he’d put such a strain on his Magic. Amael and Riel had held him between them for hours, his wind filling the ship’s sails despite having nothing left inside of him. But he had to do this for Arden. He had to push himself to every limit.
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