Sins of the Sea

by Laila Winters

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Fynn said. “But it doesn’t seem as if you’ve experimented with the full extent of your power. You’re likely capable of many things you’re not aware of. Luca? He could freeze this entire spring, if he wanted to.”

  Sol tilted her head and glanced at the water. “That must be draining.”

  Fynn shrugged. “You’ve got a warm bed to sleep in for the next three nights if you’d like to try. I only ask that you wait until after I’ve gotten out of the water.”

  “What about you?” Sol inquired. She fiddled with a silver chain around her neck. “What can you do beyond altering the wind for the sails of your ship?”

  “I could bring down this mountain with a wind storm, if I wanted to. I could rip the air from someone’s lungs and suffocate them.”

  Sol shuddered. “Have you done it before?” she asked. “Taken someone’s breath away?”

  Fynn winked at her. “On several occasions.”

  The Princess groaned, though her mouth stretched into a wide, toothy grin as she splashed a handful of water at him. “You can’t be serious for more than a few moments, can you? Is any of what you said even true?”

  “Of course it is,” Fynn told her. “But my charm just bursts out of me with more force than this volcano will one day erupt with. I can’t help it.” Fynn dropped his tone to a soft, gentle rasp and added, “And it got you to smile.”

  Her rose-colored cheeks darkened with a blush. She bashfully turned her head. “I appreciate the effort.”

  “Good, though it wasn’t so hard.”

  Sol angled herself towards him again, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. She studied him, her head tilted to one side and looking for all the world as if some long-held curiosity were finally starting to get the better of her. “Can I ask you something?”

  Fynn raised an eyebrow. “Anything.”

  “Earlier today, when we were booking the rooms for our stay… You told them that your name was Ezra. Why?”

  The name speared through his heart like the blade of a sword freshly pulled from the forge. “It’s just an alias,” Fynn told her. “I never give anyone my real name. There are too many people searching for Fynn Cardinal.”

  Sol frowned. “You’ll forgive me if I have a hard time believing that you’ve done anything so heinous that requires a bounty on your name.”

  “My ship—my crew—is my life, Sol. I’ve done many things to keep them safe.”

  Things that he would never apologize for.

  He’d stolen food when they were starving, medicine when they were sick and Luca could not heal them. He had killed to ensure they lived, had left Arden’s keeper to rot in an alley in Valestorm after plunging a blade into his heart. There was nothing Fynn would not do for them—that he had not done already.

  “Those things aren’t deserving of a bounty, then.”

  Fynn chuckled. “I suppose it depends on the perspective.”

  Sol watched him for a moment more. Her gaze dropped to what Fynn soon realized was his arm. “Your tattoos,” she said. “What do they mean? I’ve never seen such symbols.”

  Removing his arm from the pool’s edge, Fynn held it between them to give her a better view of the ink. “My mother was a priestess in Thymis’ temple,” he told her. “She had access to their hidden archives and spent years learning the language of our ancestors.”

  The Princess blinked at him in surprise. “These are runes.”

  He nodded. “They are indeed.”

  Sol slid closer, taking Fynn’s arm and absently tracing her fingers across his skin. Fynn tried his best not to shudder at the warmth left in their wake, and he prayed that she did not notice. “What does this one mean?” she asked. She brushed her thumb over a darkly inked line pointing like an upwards arrow.

  “Protection,” Fynn said. “Against my enemies.”

  “And this one?” Sol gently touched the rune consisting of two parallel lines connected by a diagonal slash.

  “Air,” Fynn said. “Or wind, I suppose.”

  They spent the next several moments discussing the Captain’s runes: honor, strength, humanity. Sol quirked her head at the last, her forefinger lingering over the sharp points of the tattoo. “To remind myself that I’m just a man,” Fynn explained. “And that no one in this life is invincible.”

  Sol sighed and sagged into the stone. “I’d like a rune,” she mused. “But my father would have me strung up in a courtyard should he discover I had a tattoo.”

  Of course he would, because in Sonamire, tattoos were a symbol of impurity. Only the women in brothels had them, marking them for what they were.

  “You don’t need one,” Fynn said. “Give me your hand.”

  She did so without hesitation, resting her scarred wrist atop the Captain’s knee as Fynn tugged them into his chest. He traced his finger against her palm, a glistening line with a diagonal extension at its point taking shape over her skin.

  “This is the symbol for water,” he explained. “Drawn with water from the spring. Even after the rune is washed away, Thymis will always keep you safe.”

  Sol stared at her hand, her eyes roving over the rune he’d drawn there. “Thank you.”

  Fynn smiled. “I can draw more, if you’d like. I know plenty.”

  Sol nodded eagerly. “Please,” she said. “Teach me. I would like that.”

  He chuckled and dipped his fingers into the water again. “You’ll be the most well-protected woman in the world by the time I’m done with you. Even the Gods will be envious.”

  Sol settled against the spring’s rocky ledge. “Good,” she said. “Because I’d imagine with all that’s to come, I’ll need all the help I can get.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  SOL

  Candlelight flickered inside an oval glass, the wick crackling like firewood. Shadows were strewn across the parchment that Sol was bent over, a feathered quill gripped tightly between her fingers. She’d spent hours sitting at this desk, crumbling yellowed pieces of stationary and tossing them into the bin behind her chair.

  Dear Silas, she’d written, I cannot do as you’ve asked. I cannot do this at all. She’d crossed out the words and tried again; writing to her brother was dangerous. Dear Quint, she’d penned instead. Please tell the Prince not to worry.

  No, that was not right.

  Breathing sharply through her nose, Sol wadded up her thousandth piece of paper. She lobbed it behind her, narrowly missing Draven’s slumbering form as he lounged on the edge of the bed, sprawled on his back and with his tongue hanging from his mouth. His ears twitched as the paper scraped over the floor, but he did not bother to investigate.

  Perhaps it was best for both their kingdoms that Sol had never made it to Dyn. She’d be expected to correspond with foreign dignitaries, and she could not even write to her own brother.

  There was too much that she wanted to tell him, too many things that had happened to her since she’d sailed away from Sonamire and never looked back. Of course, Sol had found who was probably the worst pirate in southern Irica, and instead of taking her straight to Nedros as they’d agreed, she was headed to the Dryu Islands where even Silas himself had never ventured.

  It was not safe to address her letter to Silas—of that much, Sol was certain. But if she addressed the letter to Quint, it was Silas who was certain that the Captain of the Royal Guard would deliver the message to him safely.

  She sighed.

  Dear Quint—

  Sol jumped at the knock on her door, her quill smearing a line of black ink across the parchment. She cursed, discarding her quill into the vat of ink beside her. “By the Gods, Fynn. I’ve told you twice that I don’t want to go shopping.”

  Padding across the room in little more than a flimsy blue nightgown, Sol unlocked the door and yanked it open with a frown. “Riel? What are you doing here?”

  The Quartermaster shoved her aside and swaggered into the room, Gracia trailing in behind her. “We’re sorry to barge in�
�”

  “We’re going out,” Riel announced, circling the room until she found Sol’s uneaten dinner. She helped herself to the plate on the nightstand, scavenging through the food with an unused fork until she popped a grape into her mouth. “Get dressed, because you’re coming too.”

  Sol closed the door and stood in the center of the room. “Out?”

  “Out,” Riel repeated. “There’s a tavern nearby with the best beer and wine, and all of us are going—even you. Captain’s orders.”

  “Even Luca and Arden are going,” Gracia provided. She wandered to traveling bag full of Sol’s belongings and began to rifle through it. “Her fever has broken, she’s conscious, and she’s demanding to be let off the ship. Arrowbrook is her favorite port.”

  A smile tugged at Sol’s mouth. “I’m glad she’s doing better.”

  “So are we.” Gracia tugged a dress from Sol’s bag and held it out in front of her. “This is a beautiful color,” she gushed. “The green matches your eyes.”

  Sol shook her head at the sight of it. “Oh, no, that’s not—I shouldn’t wear that to a tavern.”

  Riel snatched the dress from Gracia and held it to cover her own body. “If you don’t, I will.” The Quartermaster crinkled her nose. “But I don’t like ruffled skirts. Have anything else in that bag of yours?”

  “Nothing that’ll fit you, I’m afraid.” Gracia was still browsing through the canvas bag, donning a look of wonder as she rifled through the colorful fabric. “Sol is small. You’re far too tall to fit any of these.”

  She huffed and tossed the dress at Sol. “Put that on and let me fix that hair of yours. It’s positively dreadful.”

  Sol combed her fingers through her hair, wincing at the tangles. “It’s fine,” she said. “I can just braid it—”

  “I’ll braid it,” Riel told her. “The way you do it is boring.”

  A sigh escaped from her. There would be no arguing with the Quartermaster. “Give me a moment to get dressed.”

  Upon Riel’s wave of dismissal, Sol excused herself into the bathing room attached to her suite. She closed and locked the door behind her, afraid that Riel would barge into the room on the premise that Sol was taking too long. Sol peeled the nightgown from her body. She quickly changed into the dress, the ruffled material clinging to her hips in a way she was not comfortable with, especially if she were to wear this to a tavern. The corset bodice was tighter than she remembered, cinching in her waist even without the threads laced in the back.

  The capped sleeves had been altered to fall from her shoulders, the neckline scooping low and skimming just beneath her collarbones. She had worn this dress to Silas’ twenty-first birthday party, and at the end of the night, she had not been able to change fast enough. It was meant for parties in a ballroom, not a tavern that would certainly be filthy.

  Grumbling, she emerged from the bathing room, carefully unlatching her mother’s necklace. Afraid she’d lose it in the tavern, she placed it on her nightstand for safekeeping. “Can either of you tie up the back for me?”

  Gracia volunteered with a raised hand, flitting to Sol’s side and motioning for the Princess to turn. “This dress looks lovely on you,” she commented, her nimble fingers lacing the corset with ease. “I’ve never worn such finery.”

  Sol fiddled with the skirts that fluttered at her toes. “There’s a blue dress in my bag,” she said. “You’re welcome to wear it, if you’d like. You’re no bigger than me, so it should fit you fine.”

  Her eyes brightened with such unabashed mirth as she stepped in front of Sol when she was finished. “You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” Sol motioned towards her bag. “Help yourself.”

  She certainly did as Sol offered, rifling through her bag and disappearing into the bathing room with the dress held tightly in both hands.

  “Come sit down,” Riel instructed, her voice unusually soft as she pulled out the chair from behind the desk. Draven was currently stretched beneath it, having sought asylum when Riel breezed into the room. “Let me tame that rats nest of yours.”

  Sol sank into the wooden chair, flinching as Riel immediately set to work on untangling her hair. “What’ll you do with it?”

  “I’m not sure.” Riel worked out the knots with surprising gentleness. “What you’re doing for Gracia by letting her wear your dress, thank you. It means a lot to her.”

  Her brows furrowed as she craned her neck to look at Riel. The Quartermaster’s eyes were focused on Sol’s hair, but the emotion that flickered there was not one Sol could place. “It’s nothing,” she said. “I’d let you wear it, too, if it fit.”

  Riel began to braid a small section of red. “Gracia isn’t like me,” she said quietly. “I was raised on a ship, but my father was a wealthy man. Anything I wanted, I was given. Gracia and Luca… They weren’t that fortunate.”

  Sol frowned. “Where are they from?”

  “Lymeria,” Riel answered. “A city in Nedros that’s known for high crime rates and even higher slave trading. It’s a wonder Gracia was never taken.” She pinned a thinly pleated braid beneath the crown of Sol’s head. “They’ve never known their father, and their mother died when they were young. Until Fynn found them nearly a year ago, they’d spent their lives living in abandoned buildings. The city guards would always chase them away, but I think they felt sorry enough that they never bothered to arrest them. They were children without a home by no fault of their own.”

  “Where did Luca learn to become a healer, then?”

  “He’s mostly self-taught,” Riel told her. “But there was a healer in Lymeria who pitied them. Before he was murdered, he let Luca and Gracia sleep in his cellar so long as Luca agreed to work at his practice. He mostly took inventory, but Luca’s observant. He learned everything he could just by listening.”

  Sol’s heart ached for the twins, for the things they’d never had that she had always taken for granted. She may have resented the towering stone castle that loomed over all of Sonamire, but at least she’d had a place to call home.

  “They’re so kind,” she mused quietly. “And happy. I’d never have known unless you told me.”

  Riel shrugged, twirling a curl around her finger. “They’ve always had each other,” she said. “And that’s always been enough for them. But when they joined us on the Refuge all those months ago… I’m glad Fynn found them when he did.”

  Sol did not ask what she meant, what condition the twins had been in to have prompted Fynn to save them in the first place. “Thank you,” she said instead. “For telling me.”

  Nodding, Riel fell silent as she twisted Sol’s hair into several thin braids. She gathered them together at the nape of her neck, and they webbed like a net over the hair Riel had left down. Curls framed the Princess’ face, ones that Riel had twisted around her fingers until they were perfect ringlets. They bounced in front of her eyes.

  When Gracia emerged from the bathing room, she was twirling and spinning and splaying the skirts of her new dress. Her sea-green eyes were lighter than Sol had ever seen them, and Riel grinned as Gracia twirled for them. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “No,” Riel said. “You are.”

  The helmswoman blushed, fiddling with the pleated braids that fell over either shoulder. She turned to Sol, who’d spun in her chair to look back at her, and smiled bashfully. “Thank you.”

  Sol shrugged. “It looks better on you than it ever did me.”

  Riel squeezed her shoulder in silent thanks. “Well, you’re both dressed and this one’s hair has been tamed—sort of. I’d say it’s time for us to leave. Fynn and the others are probably already there and drinking.”

  Rising from her chair, Sol turned to Draven who was staring at her from beneath the desk, his unblinking eyes wide and glowing in the candlelight. “Stay here,” Sol told him. “I won’t be long. Help yourself to the rest of my dinner.”

  Not that Riel had left much of it.

  The direwolf huffed, licking Sol�
�s hand as she reached for him. She scratched him behind his ear. “Behave while I’m gone. Don’t go on any adventures without me.”

  Draven dropped his head as if she’d foiled his plans.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SOL

  This place was no tavern.

  She had expected the dancing and drinking, the merriment of her friends as they laughed and teased and gambled away their money on cards. But she had not anticipated the sparkling chandeliers that hung from the high-beamed ceilings, nor the candlelight flickering in golden braziers being tended to by beautiful Fire-Wielders.

  The crew had taken bets on how long it would take Fynn to flirt with them.

  Their booth was placed beneath a stained-glass image of Thymis. The colorful shards fractured the moonlight into glistening shadows across their table, shadows that Riel had tried to capture between the palms of her hands until Gracia had taken her beer away.

  Sol sipped from a goblet of wine, her eyes flitting amongst the crew as she surveyed their reverie in silence. Riel had dragged Gracia off to dance nearly an hour ago, spinning and leaping in the circle of her arms while Gracia simply bounced on her feet. It did not appear as if the helmswoman liked to dance, looking for all the world like she’d rather be anywhere else, but she would stand there if it made Riel happy—and it did. Riel was smiling wider than Sol had ever seen.

  Arden, to Sol’s joy and relief, was sat between Luca and Fynn on the opposite side of the table, her hand laid protectively across her torso. Sol wondered if it still hurt, if healing did nothing more than mend the wound and if the pain still lingered despite it. She had never asked her brother, and she’d certainly never asked Fynn who was smiling coyly at their waiter.

  Swirling the wine in her glass, Sol tried not to pay any mind to Amael, squeezed into the booth to her left. He had not even looked at her when she’d slid into the empty seat beside him, and he was careful not to touch her as he leaned over the table and slapped down his playing cards in front of Luca.

  “Ha!” Amael reached for the pile of coins they’d stacked up between them. “I win.”