Sins of the Sea

by Laila Winters

  Sol was certain her cheeks must have paled. “And this is where you’re choosing for us to stay?”

  Fynn chuckled as he gripped the heavy wooden door and held it open for Sol. “It hasn’t erupted in centuries and shows no signs of doing so. We’ll be fine. After you, love.”

  She’d have argued, insisted that he not call her ‘love,’ had the inside of the inn not completely stolen her breath away.

  Stone ceilings arched high into the mountain, the rock chipped away and carved into a towering point above the inn’s center. Glass chandeliers of varying sizes hung from rivets in the stone, fracturing the muted sunlight fed into the lobby through narrow shafts in the bedrock.

  The floor beneath their feet was shining marble, their boots thudding over the whirls of black and silver as Fynn led them to inn’s front counter. Sol was careful where she stepped, afraid to track the outside world in to such a beautiful place on the heels of her dirty leather shoes.

  Fynn rested his elbow against the polished stone and smiled at the woman behind the counter. Sol had not realized he’d rolled up his sleeves to reveal the tattooed skin and corded muscle that lie beneath. She had never noticed either before now, the hidden strength of a man who’d once fought in the war, and the black ink that swirled and twined around his forearm in lines of varying length.

  “Can I help you?” the innkeeper asked, raising a bushy eyebrow at Fynn. She glanced him over with little interest, her eyes tracing his tattoos, then looked at Sol and grunted. “I take it the two of you would like a room?”

  “Several, actually.” Fynn reached into his pocket and fished out the coins he’d stashed there, depositing a handful onto the table. “Six should be enough. Most of our crew will find their own accommodations.” He glanced at Sol and grinned. “Unless you’d like to room with me. Then we’ll only need five.”

  Her cheeks heated with a blush. “I’d prefer my own room, if possible.”

  The Captain laughed and tossed more coins onto the counter. “Six it is.”

  Behind the counter, the woman breathed sharply through her nose, her splotchy face and large brown eyes brimming with signs of her annoyance. “Only five are available,” she said drily. “Looks like you and Red here will have to share after all.”

  Sol opened her mouth to protest, to beg for the innkeeper to find something so small as a broom closet for the Princess to sleep in, but Fynn dismissed her concerns with a brisk wave of his hand. “I’ll share with Amael. I’d hate to impose on your privacy.”

  Her shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you.”

  “The rooms are still being cleaned from previous guests,” the innkeeper told them, dropping her chin into the palm of her hand as if Sol and Fynn were boring her. “What name can I write down for the reservations?”

  “Ezra Hale.”

  Sol frowned and quirked her head. “Ez—”

  He stepped on Sol’s foot to shut her up, his lips pursed with a warning. “Not now,” Fynn murmured, returning his attention to the innkeeper. “When will the rooms be ready? We’ve been at sea for weeks, and my crew is desperate for a reprieve.”

  The innkeeper shrugged. “An hour? The maids work at their own leisure.”

  Sol grumbled, “So do you, apparently.”

  Fynn flicked the inside of her wrist, then reached into his pocket and dug for more coins. He slid them across the counter, offering the innkeeper a charming smile that Sol knew would get them what he wanted. “Thirty minutes, if you will. I need them off my ship and out of my hair.”

  The innkeeper rolled her eyes and swept the coins off the counter. “Thirty minutes, sure. Anything for a well-paying customer.”

  “Thank you,” Fynn said sincerely. “We’ll return for the keys in thirty minutes.” He turned and offered Sol his elbow. “Come, love.”

  Sol gripped his arm, her fingers sliding against the smooth satin of his tunic. She was quiet as he led her across the lobby, through the double doors and back into the blistering heat of the port. “I’ve never seen such awful customer service.”

  Fynn snorted. “I’ll bet you haven’t.”

  Sol slapped the center of his chest. “She was rude.”

  “Indeed she was.” Fynn tugged his arm free and slung it over the Princess’ shoulders. “This job is probably temporary. So long as she’s paid, she doesn’t care about providing us with proper hospitality.” The Captain strolled over the flagstone, a slight bounce in his step, as he led Sol back to the harbor. “Perhaps you should write a letter to her manager since you seem so bothered by her services.”

  She huffed at him. “I think I like you better when you’re angry with me. Your teasing is far less relentless.”

  Fynn spun Sol around and frowned at her, his brow creased and eyes brimming with that same sorrow she did not want to see on his face. “I didn’t mean to snap at you earlier. I’m sorry.” Fynn raked his fingers through his hair. “I was tired and frustrated and worried about Arden and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have.”

  With a frown of her own, Sol gently touched his arm. “Don’t apologize,” she said. “I understand.”

  “Forgive me?” Fynn’s smile returned, though slightly less arrogant than his usually confident grin. “I’ll buy you something pretty in the market.”

  The Princess stifled a laugh. “I’m afraid I can’t be won with gifts, Captain. I’m far less vain than your typical girl from Sonamire.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” Fynn tugged her along down the path that led to the dock. “But you didn’t give me an answer: do you forgive me?”

  Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, Sol reached for Fynn’s hand, his arm still resting over her shoulders, and took his calloused fingers between her own. “There’s nothing to forgive you for. What I said to you yesterday… It was careless and unfair and I deserved that bit of hostility in return. Do you forgive me?”

  Fynn pressed a kiss to her cheek. “There’s nothing to forgive you for.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  FYNN

  The first time Fynn Cardinal had stayed at this inn, he’d been recovering from a spear to the chest. Amael had insisted that the port was safe, that he had done trade here with his father when he was a boy, and Riel had taken him for his word. Fynn had needed time to rest, to recover from his injuries without the fear of infection settling in, and he’d been in no shape to argue.

  Luca and Riel had fussed over him for days, the latter threatening him with a slow death should Fynn die on her watch. Amael had never left his side, and between his constant prayers and tearful murmurs of, “I’m so sorry,” Fynn had found himself a friend in a boy he’d barely known.

  It didn’t feel right to be fighting with him now, for something so silly as Sol’s hidden Magic to have been what came between them. If only Amael knew who she was, then he would understand her hesitation. But Fynn would not tell him, would not risk Sol’s safety to pacify his friend’s skepticism, and so this distance among them would remain.

  At least for now. Amael wasn’t one to hold a grudge.

  Fynn sank beneath the water, the warmth of the inn’s hot spring washing away the memories of this port—the bad ones, at least. They had ventured to Arrowbrook several times just to visit this inn, to bathe and relax in these springs, and Fynn would not trade those memories for anything.

  Tipping his head back against the stone-encrusted edge of the pool, Fynn closed his eyes and listened to the incessant splashing of his crew. Water steamed and rippled around him, but a smile curved at his mouth. That he could do so at all was a testament to Luca’s skills as a healer, who’d assured him earlier that evening that Arden would be just fine. He’d chosen to stay with her on the ship.

  Riel shrieked as Amael dunked her head beneath the water, his laughter booming off the rocky walls. “What was that, Ri? I can’t hear you with all that water in your mouth.”

  Gracia shouted in outrage, slapping her palms against Amael’s chest. “Let her go!”

 
“Why? She’s been doing it to me all night!”

  But he did indeed let her go.

  Their Quartermaster surfaced, sputtered, and rasped, “You’ll pay for that.”

  The springs around them quaked, and Fynn pried open one eye as Amael was yanked beneath the water. The bedrock below curled around his ankles and held him there, his arms flailing as Riel’s Magic, wild and raw after all these weeks away from land, sought revenge.

  “Riel,” Fynn drawled. She whipped her head to where he lounged in the corner of the spring. “Do not drown my boatswain. I still need him.”

  Gracia wrapped her arms around Riel’s middle and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “Fynn’s right,” she said. “If you kill Amael, Milo will take his place and he always falls from the rigging. And he’s no good with a hammer.”

  The Jadoan boy splashed water at her, ruining the delicately pleated braids that Riel had done for her that night. “I’ve helped Amael patch up the ship dozens of times,” Milo argued. “And I’ve only fallen once.”

  Amael gasped for air as he emerged from beneath the water. Fynn closed his eyes again. Whatever chaos ensued at the other end of the spring, he did not let himself watch lest he end up wading over to join them. Instead, he listened fondly to his family, content in both his own leisure and their merriment.

  It was so quiet that he nearly missed it, so lost to the renewed elation of his crew that Fynn opened his eyes only after the large stone doors sealing in the spring heat creaked open. He blinked the haze from his eyes, entirely convinced that it was not the Princess of Sonamire who was creeping along the outer edges of the spring until she lifted her head and looked at him.

  Fynn waved at her, beads of water rolling from the tips of his fingers, and motioned her over. Sol wrapped her arms around herself as she padded towards him, a complimentary inn robe draped over her shoulders and fluttering at the heels of her feet.

  “I’m surprised you came down.”

  Sol stood above him, her face drawn as sweat began to gather at her brow. “I waited long enough that I thought no one else would be here.” She shifted on her feet in a way that told Fynn she was uncomfortable.

  “I’d stay here all night if I could.” He absently traced shapes through the water. “Are you going to stand there, or come in?”

  The Princess chewed on her bottom lip, her options like a visible weight on her shoulders: join the Captain in the pool, or go back to her room and pretend she had never come here. Fynn dropped his head against the edge of the spring and closed his eyes again, giving her the choice to stay or go without the fear of his judgement.

  A moment passed before Fynn felt the water ripple against his bare torso. Sol had not climbed into the spring, not entirely; her legs were dangling over the edge of the pool when Fynn looked at her.

  “It’s better if you come all the way in.”

  Sol gripped her fluffy white robe and pulled it tighter around her. “Maybe later.”

  Fynn shrugged, lolling his head towards her until his temple was resting against her knee. “Suit yourself.”

  They fell into an easy silence, Fynn’s deep breaths the only sound between them. He knew she was watching the crew, likely smiling at their antics, and possibly wishing she could join them. He almost suggested she do so, if only for his own amusement when Riel dunked a Water-Wielder’s head beneath the spring. But he didn’t. If Sol joined his friends, Fynn would find himself paddling through the water alongside her instead of relaxing on the curved rock bench carved into the spring wall.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this relaxed.”

  It had not occurred to him that perhaps Sol was watching him, too.

  “I’m always relaxed,” Fynn mused. “But there’s something about this spring that always puts me at ease. It’s like the water melts away every concern I have and stores it in the bedrock until I leave.”

  Sol’s giggle took him by surprise. “How poetic.”

  Fynn nudged her leg with his elbow. “Don’t mock me. You’d know this feeling, too, if you’d only join me in the water.”

  “I don’t have proper swimming attire,” Sol said. She tucked a loose strand of red hair back behind her ear. “And don’t suggest that I swim with a robe on. This was the only one in my room.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “That’s your only reservation?” Fynn asked. “That you’ve got nothing to swim in and that’s your only robe?”

  She shrugged, the garment nearly swallowing her whole. “I suppose.”

  He moved like lightning. Fynn grabbed Sol’s wrist and grinned, pulling the Princess into the hot spring. She momentarily sank beneath the water, her arms flailing until she gathered her bearings and surfaced. The water rose to her chest, and Sol yelped as she flipped back her hair, the strands clinging to her cheeks.

  Fynn’s crew stopped what they were doing to look at them, Riel cackling at the sight of Sol submerged in the spring before she and the others resumed their reverie.

  Fynn was still smiling when Sol whirled on him, her hazel eyes dark with a strange, muted fury that Fynn had not thought her capable of. His mouth turned down at the corners, and he watched as she rallied her power. The Magic in her veins called to the water of the spring, water that was suddenly too warm to have been heated by the Mountain alone. Steam rose in thick plumes around them, a haze of blistering heat that stung the Captain’s eyes. Sol clenched her fists, her nostrils flaring as she breathed in sharply through her nose.

  It was here that Fynn finally saw her bloodline, that infamous Rosebone temper that allowed the Prince of Sonamire to burn their enemies to ash.

  “Sol…”

  She blinked, the sound of her name like dousing the flames of that ancient rage inside her. Her brow furrowed, and the water cooled to a soothing warmth that lapped at Fynn’s scarred chest.

  He reached for her, and the horror written across her face was enough to tell him that she had not meant what she’d done. That the sudden anger had taken her, too, by surprise.

  “Magic has a mind of its own,” he explained slowly, his hand floating palm-up atop the water in silent offering. She eyed it warily. “If it thinks we’re in danger, sometimes it’ll do what it must to keep us safe. We don’t always have control over it when that happens.”

  Sol swallowed with what appeared to be great difficulty. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—did the water—”

  “It got a little toasty,” Fynn said. “But it didn’t hurt me, and the others don’t seem to have noticed.”

  Sol drifted through the spring and perched herself on the stone bench, her fingers bone-white as she gripped the pool’s edge. Her braided hair floated through the water like rubies adrift at sea, the loose, unraveling strands curling as if unleashed from some daily concoction that kept them tamed into submission.

  “I’ve never seen you wear your hair down,” Fynn noted. He would do anything to take her mind off what she’d done, to wipe away that dread still guttering in her eyes. “It’s always in a braid.”

  Her chest heaved with a deep, steadying breath of air. Fynn stirred an icy breeze around her. “It’s naturally very curly,” Sol told him stiffly. “I brush it straight and braid it, otherwise I’ll look like a lion.”

  “I like lions.” Fynn gave her a grin that the Princess did not return. She did not so much as even look at him. He sighed and combed his fingers through his own hair. “When I first discovered that I was a Wind-Wielder, I nearly blew away my home.”

  She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes.

  “I was very young, and scared, and I was afraid I would never learn to control it. But do you know what prompted that very first wind storm when I was a child?”

  “What?”

  “My brother.” Fynn took a breath of his own, one that was frigid and scorching all at once, drafted by the Magic in his veins. “Even as children, he was a monster, and he used to beat me relentlessly. Our healers grew fond of me. But one day, I’d finally had en
ough, and I screamed at him to leave me alone, to get away from me.”

  He closed his eyes and silenced the wind inside him. He did not think of his brother often, but the memories of his abuse, the way he would beat Fynn into the dirt and leave him there broken and bleeding, were enough to still make his heart stall with fear.

  “Only I didn’t scream,” Fynn continued, opening his eyes and blinking through the spring steam. “And it was a fierce wind that tore out of me instead.”

  Sol turned to him then, angling herself towards the Captain with a frown. “No one stopped him from hurting you?”

  “No,” Fynn said. “But my Magic did.”

  “Where were your parents?” she demanded. “They allowed him to do this? My father nearly murdered my brother when he burned me, and that was an accident.” Sol gripped her wrist, the burn there still hidden beneath her bracelet. Fynn doubted she ever took it off.

  “There was nothing my mother could do,” Fynn explained. “And my father didn’t care. My brother was the favorite, as I assume most first-born sons are, and got away with whatever he wanted.”

  She was quiet for a moment, mulling over his words as she dropped her gaze to the water. Fynn wondered what her life had been like in Sonamire, a kingdom known for their palaces and temples and traditions. She was close with Silas, the Crown Prince that Fynn had seen on the battlefield all those years ago, burning until he’d had nothing left. But what of her father? There was nothing for Sol to inherit, no territories she could rule over as a woman. The King didn’t need her like Fynn’s father had not needed him. Had he treated her as such?

  She had run away, after all.

  “You weren’t trying to hurt me,” Sol said eventually. “I didn’t need protection.”

  “I’m a stranger,” Fynn pointed out. “Your Magic doesn’t know me any more than you do. You’re both still learning to trust me, that I would never hurt you.”

  Assisted by Fynn’s Magic, Sol breathed through her nose. “I didn’t know I could change the water’s temperature.”