Sins of the Sea

by Laila Winters

  He pulled a dark grey tunic over his head and did not care that the fabric was stained red with wine. “A letter?” Fynn mused, yanking on his breeches. “To who?”

  “My brother,” Sol answered. “I was meant to write to him when I reached Nedros, but since we’ve taken a detour, he’ll be worried that he hasn’t heard from me yet.”

  Fynn stuffed his feet into his boots, the heels caked with mud that he dug from the grooves with his fingernail. “Is this what you meant when you said you had things to do?” He glanced at Amael as he tightened the laces. “Do I really need to be dragged along while the two of you deliver a letter? We’re casting off tomorrow morning and I have things of my own to take care of.”

  He’d tell them anything to get away, to escape from the look Sol was giving him. It was not one of disgust, nor was it the giddy amusement that bloomed in Amael’s face, but she made it a point to avoid catching his eye as she watched him fumble with his shoes.

  For the love of Thymis, what had Amael told her?

  “You don’t have to come,” Sol assured him. She was still fidgeting with her hair, and Fynn wondered if Sol hoped that he wouldn’t come. “But we’re getting breakfast before we head into the market, and we thought that you might want to join us. I didn’t see you eat dinner last night, so we figure you’d be hungry.”

  As if in answer, Fynn’s stomach rumbled with betrayal.

  He sighed and finished lacing his boots. “Breakfast it is.”

  And what a horrible breakfast it was.

  The three of them had sat together at a long banquet table in the inn’s dining room, Sol perched precariously on the end of a wrought-iron bench. Amael sat beside her, a buffer between the Princess and Captain that kept them from being able to see one another. Fynn had tried leaning around him to speak to her, to lessen that strange, building tension between them, but Sol had kept her eyes fixated on her plate, idly picking at an assortment of eggs, potatoes, and crisp bacon while providing the Captain with brief, one-worded answers. She’d eaten so little that a waitress had stopped by to ask if the food was to her liking, to which she’d forced a smile and promised the woman it was fine, that she simply just wasn’t hungry.

  Fynn had never been more relieved when the waitress cleared away their plates, when Amael and Sol had risen to their feet and bid the Captain farewell. He’d offered Sol his arm, and the Princess had allowed Amael to lead them both from the dining room, the skirts of her sapphire dress fluttering over the marble floor.

  He told himself it did not bother him, that Sol was free to indulge in who she pleased, just as he had done with Jorel the night before. Albeit, Amael had been angry with her yesterday, and he did not know what could possibly have changed in one night.

  He strolled through the market outside, his pockets jangling with what little gold he had left, and he did not let himself consider it. Amael and Sol were his friends, and if something had changed and they were happy, then by the Gods, Fynn could be happy, too. For them, if necessary, even if for some reason, it hurt.

  He’d be even happier if he could find this godsdamned dragon scale and not have to travel any further south. If he never visited Dryu again, it would still be far too soon.

  But he didn’t happen across any dragon scales, least of all the one he was searching for.

  There were stands of glittering stones and geodes, of silk scarves and tapestries, intricate statuettes that were painted gold and silver. Gowns of gossamer, satin, and taffeta exploded in bursts of color, ruffled skirts fit for a queen swaying over the polished flagstones. Fynn lazily fingered through the material, wondering if the Princess of Sonamire had once donned such ridiculous finery.

  Thick, leather-bound books, some written in languages that Fynn could not read, were stacked from floor to ceiling inside a small, quaint stone building. He peered through the stained-glass windows, the colorful mural of Ealdyr cracked across his cheek as if someone had taken a rock to it. Interest piqued—the Captain enjoyed a good book—Fynn wandered inside, the sign on the door reading Ancient Tomes of the Emerald.

  It was cramped and dusty, but the smell of old books was nearly as intoxicating as the wine he’d consumed the night before. Fynn plucked a few from their stacks, leafed through the deckle-edged paper, and slowly built a pile of the ones he liked until he could not carry any more.

  There was hardly any room on the bowing shelves in his cabin, but reading brought him the same peace as sharpening the blades of his swords. It kept his mind busy, his hands, and it silenced the wind inside of him. Even Magic could appreciate beautiful prose.

  A flash of red caught the Captain’s eye, and suddenly that peace was ripped away from him.

  He turned to find Sol entering the little shop, her fingers tracing over the spines of colorful books. Amael was nowhere to be found, and there was a part of Fynn who wanted to kill him for having left the Princess alone. But Sol was not a child, and Amael didn’t know who she was, that there was a bounty on her head and hunters who’d been paid to take her home.

  Fynn debated leaving her alone—she was smiling now, and she had not been this morning—but the panic coiling in his stomach took hold; he knew there were bounty hunters looking for her, and he would not let them have Sol.

  Returning several of the books he’d tucked into the bend of his arm, Fynn kept only three from his pile. He sauntered to the Princess of Sonamire. “Those books are written in the Holy Tongue,” he told her. “The language of the Gods. There are very few people who can read them.”

  Sol jumped at his voice, her hand splayed across her chest as if to contain the heart within. “You scared me.”

  He flashed her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Where’s Amael?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. Sol picked up a book and flipped through the pages. “Last I saw him, he was trying to barter with some man for a knife he wanted. He said it was…dematus?”

  “Damascus,” Fynn corrected. “It’s a type of steel.”

  “Oh.”

  Sol’s hazel eyes roved over the pages of the book, her lips moving as if murmuring the words beneath her breath. Fynn frowned at her, his head tilting curiously to one side. “You can read the Holy Tongue?”

  “Yes,” Sol said absently. “Learning it was part of my lessons.”

  “That’s quite the education for a simple girl from Valestorm.”

  She stilled, did not appear to breathe, and then she snapped the book shut and put it back. “My father wanted better for me, I suppose.”

  A knowing smile pulled at the corners of Fynn’s mouth, but he did not press the subject. Sol moved to a different stack of books, ones written in the Irican language and that anyone could read.

  “Do you like to read?” Fynn asked.

  Sol lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “Sometimes.”

  “I have plenty of books in my cabin,” he told her. “You’re welcome to them.”

  She paused again, as if she were contemplating his offer. “Thank you.”

  Fynn nodded, silently following Sol through the shop. The tomes were covered in dust, layers upon layers that Sol swept away from the spines. She was careful as she turned their pages. Some of them were ripped, some of them hanging loose from the leather bindings. She muttered beneath her breath about what a shame it was to keep books in such a condition, that they ought to be fixed and rebound and kept somewhere safe from the elements.

  The Princess did not purchase any books, but she waited patiently as Fynn paid for the newest additions to his collection. “I’m surprised you’ve only bought books today,” Sol mused, stepping into the Arrowbrook heat. She held open the door for Fynn. “Unless, of course, you’ve already taken a horde of fancy rocks back to your room for safekeeping.”

  Fynn snorted as the shop door swung shut behind him. “No stones for me,” he told her. “I haven’t found any that I like.”

  “Ah.”

  Sol was already moving for the next shop, a small stand w
hose vendor was selling an assortment of handmade jewelry and trinkets. They were made from seashells, Fynn realized, and Sol’s eyes had instantly brightened at the sight of them.

  He watched as she rifled through the shells and sought out the pieces she liked.

  “Don’t you collect shells?”

  “I used to,” Sol said. “But it seems silly now. I have no need for them.”

  She lifted a cream-colored bracelet from the counter. Sol turned it between her fingers, studying each individual shell threaded through with copper wire. They were puka shells, ones that were shining with an iridescent lacquer that beautifully captured the sunlight.

  “I don’t think it’s silly,” Fynn said, reaching into his pocket and tracing his thumb over a coin. “Not if it brings you joy.”

  The Princess stilled, perhaps recalling the words she’d once spoken to him in the aftermath of the bounty hunters’ attack. Sol gingerly returned the bracelet to the counter. “Isn’t that why you keep so may crystals?” she asked. “Because they bring you joy?”

  “Yes. Otherwise they’re just decorative rocks.”

  Sol laughed, brushing her fingers over the polished shells. “Well said.”

  It was her laughter, a sound far lovelier than the tolling bells of a temple, that garnered the attention of the brutes stealing jewelry across the street. Their rugged faces twisted with feral delight as one procured a crumpled sheet of parchment. He studied it, the image Fynn knew must be painted there. The bounty hunters looked at him and grinned.

  He stilled, robbed of his breath without the use of any Magic.

  Sol must have taken his silence as something more than speechless. “What is it?” she asked, lifting her head to finally meet the Captain’s eyes. She blanched at whatever she found there. “Your face,” she whispered. “I saw you embarrassed this morning, but I’ve never seen you nervous. You’re nervous.”

  Fynn took her hand and squeezed. “Do you trust me?”

  She did not hesitate to dip her chin and breathe, “Yes.”

  “Then run,” he said. “And don’t you dare look back.”

  The bounty hunters were on their heels the moment they were sprinting over the flagstones.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SOL

  The Captain clutched her hand as if their lives depended on something more than Sol’s ability to keep herself moving. His fingers were locked in an iron-tight grip around her wrist, and Sol wondered if Fynn could feel it. If the scarred, rippling skin pressing into the pads of his fingers was as repulsive to Fynn as it was to her.

  But now was not the time to dwell on something so trivial, not when she knew that Fynn would never admit to such things, and not when their lives truly did depend on her ability to keep up with him. Fynn pulled her alongside him and did not dare let her slow, did not dare give her feet the time to falter against the cobblestones.

  “Fynn,” Sol panted, grasping the sleeve of the Captain’s ruffled tunic as tightly as he gripped her wrist. “What are we running from? I don’t think I can—”

  “Bounty hunters,” he said roughly. Fynn led her between two large, colorful merchant stalls, and if not for the fluttering fabric that swayed in his hand in lieu of the books he’d just purchased, Sol would never have realized he’d yanked two hooded cloaks from a clothesline. The vendor must not have noticed, either, because no one called after him for stealing them. “Keep running.”

  Sol’s heart was in the back of her throat, beating with all the rage of a dragon whose wings could still fly. She could hear her pulse, the desperate pounding of her blood as it coursed through her veins and stirred the Magic that dwelled there. If only they were closer to the quay. She could flood these streets and rid this port of the bounty hunters.

  But even Fynn wasn’t touching his Magic, was not using his wind to blow the hunters away like Sol knew he could. No, he would not give himself away, would not give the people of Arrowbrook a reason to join their chase. It was dangerous to leave themselves so vulnerable, but it was a risk Fynn appeared willing to take.

  Sol, however, did not know if it was a risk that she could afford.

  “Fynn,” she gasped. “I can’t—I can’t keep up. I can’t keep running.”

  “Yes, you can,” he snapped at her. Fynn tossed a look over his shoulder, and only then did he finally slow. He thrust a pilfered cloak into the Princess’ arms and continued to pull her along. “Put that on,” he said. He yanked on his own cloak with one hand. “Now. Pull up the hood and tuck in your hair.”

  He released her long enough that Sol could slip her arms into the belled sleeves, then grasped her wrist so tightly that Sol feared her bones might shatter. Already, they ached, and her scarred skin burned as if once again on fire.

  Sol pulled the fur-trimmed hood over her head, concealing her tangled, unraveling braid inside the beautiful scarlet wool. It was a garment she’d have picked for herself had she and Fynn had the time to browse for such finery, though she could not say she appreciated its warmth in this moment. Beads of sweat were beginning to roll between her shoulder blades.

  The Princess of Sonamire choked on a scream as Fynn swerved, yanking her down a darkened alley where even the sun did not reach. The damp air was a welcomed brush of cold against Sol’s stifling skin, a canopy of dirty fabric swaying overhead in a breeze of the Captain’s creation.

  Cursing beneath his breath, Fynn gently pressed Sol against the wall of a wet, crumbling brick building, the cracked stones cutting into her back despite her dress and cloak.

  “Fynn,” she breathed. “What are we doing here?”

  “Hiding,” he said. Fynn fixed her hair, tucking the loose strands of red into her hood. “Even if they come this way, they’ll leave us be. They’ll think we’re—doing things.”

  It was not like him to stumble.

  Sol’s heart stalled, her cheeks heating with a modest blush as she understood why he was stumbling. “Things?” she demanded, her voice reverberating off the stone. “What things?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Fynn snarled quietly. He stepped closer, pressing his hands into the brick on either side of her head, trapping her between the cage of his arms. The space between them was gone, Fynn’s heaving chest pushing into Sol’s front. “If we’re lucky, they won’t even see us here. It’s dark enough.”

  “And then what?” Sol asked hoarsely. “What if they do see us?”

  “We’re secluded.” His breath was warm against her cheek, sucking the air from her lungs as she lifted her eyes to meet his wild ones. “If they come this way, I can use my Magic.”

  A ruse, then, this alley, to either drive them away or lure them in close so that Fynn could blast them into oblivion.

  Footsteps thudded over the loose gravel, crunched over the broken shards of glass littering the alley. Sol could not contain her whimper, could not stop herself from reaching for Fynn and gripping the collar of his cloak. He hushed her, pressing his forehead against her brow and gently cupping her face. “Be quiet,” he whispered. “They’ll move on.”

  Her fault—this was her fault.

  The hunters were looking for her, just as they’d been looking for her the morning the Refuge had been attacked. Fynn, of course, didn’t know any better, had assumed they’d been there for him. But Sol knew. Sol knew the truth that she could not bring herself to tell him, and now it would likely get them killed.

  “I think I saw them go this way!”

  Sol yelped, hushed only by Fynn’s calloused thumb brushing lightly across her lips. “Shh,” he murmured. “It’s all right. Just stay quiet.”

  She leaned into the Captain’s palm. “I’m scared.”

  “So am I.”

  And he was. She could hear it in the way his voice quivered, the way his fingers shook against her cheek. His heart was thundering in his chest, hard enough that Sol felt it beating against hers, in sync with her own.

  A bounty hunter rounded into the alley, a bright, sweltering ball of light flickering
in his palm. A Fire-Wielder.

  Fynn tensed, his thumb smoothing over Sol’s cheek as he drew a ragged breath. “Do you trust me?”

  “Always,” Sol vowed, and it was the last bit of air between them before Fynn’s mouth was on hers, stealing away the rest.

  His lips were soft, hesitant as he claimed her first kiss.

  Sol was drowning. Drowning and flying and lost to the weight of Fynn kissing her, what it felt like, his calloused fingers tracing the lines of her jaw. His nose brushed against her own, and a soft, breathy laugh rumbled in the back of his throat.

  Fake. This was nothing more than an act to him, a ploy to save their lives.

  But he could do this, Sol realized, could play this part and make it look real. She had seen him with that boy the night before, had seen him wrapped up in Jorel as if he were as intoxicating as the wine. Sol did not know how to do that—how to be that.

  And Fynn must have known it, too, because she could taste the desperation on his mouth. He pressed himself closer, his hand falling to her hip where he gently tapped his fingers. Do something, he seemed to say. Do anything. Play along.

  Sol breathed in sharply through her nose. She placed a hand against the center of Fynn’s chest, the other inside the curve of his neck. She felt his pulse beneath her fingers, his heart beneath her palm. Fynn sighed against her lips as if she had done something right, relief loosening the tension from his shoulders.

  “Ugh. Disgusting.”

  A quiet snarl tore from the Captain’s throat, one that shook Sol straight to her marrow. Fynn pried his mouth from hers, a hairsbreadth of space between them as he hunched his shoulders and spat, “Get lost. We’re busy.”

  It was not his voice that echoed through that darkened alleyway, cold and fierce and lacking its usual charm. Even his accent had changed, twisting into one less lilting and that Sol did not recognize from any region of Irica.

  The Fire-Wielder snorted, close enough now that Sol heard the crackling of his Magic. “So I see, lad. Mind telling me where you found her?”