Sins of the Sea

by Laila Winters

  Amael lifted his head, twisting against the duvet until he was propped onto his elbows and looking at her. “Your hair? That wouldn’t change the color of it.”

  “But they’re looking for a Princess,” Sol told him. “And Princesses have long hair. What if I didn’t?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “They might mistake you for a boy, at first. Maybe. But it might give you enough time to get away should the hunters find you again.” Amael looked at her, his eyes assessing the mess of hair atop her head. “What if we dyed it?”

  Sol blinked. “Dyed it? Like a different color?”

  “No, Sol, dyed it as in we murder it.”

  She slapped his leg. “Don’t tease me.”

  “I think you’d look nice with dark hair.” Amael stretched his arms above his head, twisting his body until his spine cracked. Sol winced. He rose from the bed with a yawn, venturing to stuff his feet into the salt-covered boots Sol had made him leave by the front door. “Stay here. There’s a merchant in the market that sells hair products. I’ll see if I can find a pretty color for you.”

  Sol clutched her braid with both hands, absently tugging at the strands. “I’ve never been anything but a redhead.”

  “No shit.” Amael swept his hand over his head. “I’ve never been anything but bald.”

  The Princess narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re a menace.”

  He grinned as he sauntered for the door. “I won’t be long. Think about if you want me to cut it, and then we’ll dye it when I get back.”

  Sol bit her bottom lip. “Do you think it’ll look awful?” she asked. “If I cut it?”

  Amael chuckled at her insecurity. “No,” he said. “I think you’ll great. Besides,” he rubbed his head again, his dark skin shining beneath the sunlight filtering through the windows. “I cut my own hair with no trouble. Cutting yours will be a piece of cake.”

  A quiet laugh passed through her lips. “I trust you.”

  The boatswain was still smiling as he slipped from the room. “I’m glad you finally do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  FYNN

  It was a beautiful day for sailing, the sun shimmering off the Emerald’s rippling waves. A smattering of white clouds were smeared across a canvas of blue sky, and a gentle breeze of salt and mist filled the sails of the Refuge.

  Arrowbrook was a small, sparkling speck on the curved shore when Fynn stepped away from the helm. He offered the wheel to Gracia, the helmswoman standing quietly to his left and observing the sea stretching across the horizon. She smiled at him as she took his place, her hands gripping the wooden spokes with a confidence that warmed his heart.

  Striding to the rail of the quarterdeck, Fynn braced his forearms over the intricately carved banister. He studied his crew both above and below, romping about the deck and dangling from the rigging to secure the lines. Fynn counted them for the hundredth time, assuring himself that everyone was on board and that he had not left anyone in the port.

  Eighteen, nineteen, twenty…

  The Captain stilled, the blood in his veins as frozen as the mountains to the north.

  “Riel,” he rasped, his eyes scanning the deck, the rigging, the water in the ship’s wake. He did not find what he was looking for, though the number of his crew were accounted for.

  “What?” Riel trilled, approaching the banister with a grin. “Already regret casting off? I’m sure the rest of us wouldn’t mind a few more days—”

  “Sol,” Fynn said, gripping Riel’s arm and shaking her. “Where is she?”

  Riel frowned. She looked, studying every plank of the ship that Fynn might have missed in his panic, and swore. “She’s not here,” Riel said with muted terror. “Even Luca hasn’t retreated below deck yet, and I don’t think Sol’s ever gone there, anyway.” Riel spun to look at Fynn and pushed hard against the Captain’s shoulder, knocking him around to face her. “You left the Princess in Arrowbrook?” she hissed, fury guttering in her eyes. “After bounty hunters nearly arrested you in the market yesterday?”

  No—no he couldn’t have forgotten her. Sol knew they were meant to leave this morning, and Fynn had sent Amael to her suite at the inn to retrieve her.

  He spotted him near the foremast, laughing with a deckhand whose back was turned to the Captain. His blood burned, and Fynn saw red as he noted the direwolf at his side. Draven was sprawled at Amael’s feet, his tail thumping lightly against the planks. “Tell Gracia to turn this ship around,” Fynn seethed. “We’re going back to look for her.”

  He did not give her the chance to argue, to yell at him again for making such a foolish mistake. Fynn should have gone for her himself, should have swallowed down that pitiful, fluttering feeling in his gut that swarmed whenever he’d thought of Sol last night, this morning, right now.

  Fynn bolted down the quarterdeck stairs two at a time, spearing for the boatswain with such fierce determination that the deckhands in his path scrambled out of the Captain’s way.

  “Amael!” Fynn snarled. A violent wind tore at the sails, whipping the ship around faster than Gracia could twist the helm. She shrieked from the quarterdeck as the Refuge pivoted at an angle, half the crew stumbling across the deck and clutching the starboard banister.

  Amael’s eyes widened as he gripped the deckhand’s waist, planting his feet and anchoring them both to the planks. “Fynn, what the Hell—”

  “Where is she?” the Captain demanded, shoving aside the deckhand as the ship leveled upright. He thrust his open palm against Amael’s shoulder and sent him staggering back a step. “I swear to Thymis, Amael, I will gut you like a godsdamned fish if you tell me you left her in Arrowbrook.”

  A sly smile tugged at Amael’s mouth. “Left who in Arrowbrook?”

  “You know damn well who I’m talking about. I sent you to get Sol this morning, not her dog. What did you do, leave her to rot in the port and then kidnap the godsdamned wolf? What’d you do to make it come willingly?”

  “Easy,” Amael mused. “I brought the master.”

  Fynn threw up his hands as if that alone would smite him. “You did not!” He bellowed. “Sol is—”

  “Behind you,” said the deckhand.

  The Captain spun on his heels, thrusting himself towards that voice, the one he could pick from any crowd.

  It was indeed Sol’s face staring back at him, her hazel eyes shining beneath the chestnut-colored fringe sweeping across her temples and brow. Her hair had been cut above her shoulders, the dyed strands curling into wild, tightly twisting spirals that framed her delicate face.

  Fynn blinked at her. “Oh,” he said, his winds sputtering out. “Hi.”

  Sol nervously fiddled with a curl, twirling it around her index finger. “I wanted a change.”

  It was a lie, of course.

  Yesterday had spooked her, and no matter what Fynn had told her about the hunters, what Amael might have told her last night, Sol had known they were looking for her.

  “So I see,” Fynn said, playfully tugging on her curls. The Princess swatted him away. “I like it. You look lovely with dark hair.”

  A blush reddened her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said. “But I think you owe Amael an apology. Such accusations are quite rude, Captain.”

  Fynn raised an eyebrow as he turned to look at Amael. His friend’s smile was smug, his arms crossed over the broad expanse of his chest. “I suppose I do,” Fynn grumbled. “But not if he doesn’t wipe that smirk off his face.”

  Amael pursed his lips. “This better?”

  Fynn snorted. “Much,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted,” Amael replied, shrugging his massive shoulders. “Now say you’re sorry to the rest of the crew for whipping this ship around and nearly sending half of them overboard.”

  His face flushed hot as he turned his back to the boatswain. Fynn’s crew was indeed still glaring at him, grumbling in discontent as they righted themselves and returned to their duties.
He offered them a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry,” he announced, grimacing as the lot of them scoffed. “I didn’t mean to frighten you all, but it was Sol’s fault.”

  The Princess shrieked in outrage. “What?” She grabbed his arm and wrenched him around to face her. Sol’s nose was crinkled with such out-of-place fury that Fynn struggled not to laugh at her. “Don’t you blame me for your lack of observation, Captain. Only my hair changed, not my face.”

  Fynn kissed her cheek and darted away, narrowly missing the sloppy swing of Sol’s fist as she aimed for the center of his chest. “Nice try,” he called back to her, jogging for the quarterdeck with a grin. “Maybe next time.”

  Sol hesitated, then lifted her hand and showed him her middle finger. It was a gesture she certainly would have been punished for had she done it back home in Sonamire. “Go to Hell, Fynn.”

  The Captain was still smiling as he climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck.

  The stars above were his only guide as Fynn stood silently at the helm. He did not fill the sails with his wind, did not push them any faster towards their destination. They would reach the Dryu Islands by morning, and Fynn would need to conserve his strength if he was to venture there alone and inquire about the long-lost Dragon’s Heart.

  Nero, the island’s Elder, would not take kindly to his arrival, would hurl another spear at him with the warrior’s strength that somehow still lingered in his bones. In giving Amael a home, Fynn had struck the match himself and burned any bridges that might lay precariously between them.

  But he had to try. Fynn had to try one more time to speak with Nero about the Dragon’s Heart. If anyone knew where it was, it was Nero, though Amael had insisted that he would not divulge such information even if he had it.

  Fynn sighed as he rubbed the center of his chest. The scar left behind from Nero’s spear was rough against his fingertips, a permanent reminder that Amael would always be his brother, that his crew would always be his family.

  He’d take a thousand spears from a thousand men if it kept even one of them safe.

  Lost in his reverie, Fynn nearly missed the shuffling footsteps that thudded up the quarterdeck stairs. On instinct, he reached for the hilt of his knife, his fingers curling loosely around the weapon sheathed at his hip. A head of dark hair emerged from the stairwell, and Fynn held his breath until Sol’s face was illuminated by the pale moonlight.

  “It’s just me,” she said, patting the creature beside her. “And Draven.”

  Fynn relaxed, propping himself up against the helm. “It’s late,” he mused. “You should be sleeping. We’ll reach the island by morning.”

  Sol reached for her hair, fingering through the messy curls and flinching at the tangles she found there. “I can’t sleep,” she admitted. “I asked Amael to tell me more about the island, and I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be,” Fynn said. He’d do anything to quell her fears, to take them away entirely. “The Dryuans will not touch you.”

  She shook her head, pursing her lips in a way that told Fynn she had spent a great deal of time considering this. “I’m not scared for me,” she told him. “I’m scared for you. Amael told me what his people would do to you. That they would throw you into a training pit and let the dragons pick you apart.”

  Fynn grimaced at such abhorrent punishment. “Don’t listen to him,” he said. “He’s dramatic.”

  Sol padded closer, her clenched hands within casual reach of the Captain’s. “He’s not dramatic,” she argued. “Those scars down the side of his neck? Amael told me how he got them, Fynn. He said that Nero threw him into the training pit when he refused to take a whip to a dragon. If he could do that to Amael, he wouldn’t bat an eye over you.”

  He did not want to have this conversation with her. Despite his Magic, Fynn already knew that his chances of survival were astronomically small. He did not need Sol to remind him.

  Fynn returned his attention to the helm, turning the wheel just enough to correct their course. “I’ll be fine,” he said curtly. “And if you don’t mind, I really don’t want to talk about this.”

  The Princess pursed her lips as if she might say more, then thought better of it. “Fine,” she conceded. “But only because if you die tomorrow, I’d prefer our last conversation not be an argument.”

  A startled laugh escaped from him. “A few weeks at sea and already you’ve become so blunt.” Fynn tucked his hair behind his ear. He tipped back his head and stared at the sky above, turning the helm accordingly. “Nedros is still three months away, if we’re lucky. Your manners will be gone by then.”

  Sol did not rise to the bait. “How do you do that?” she asked instead.

  Fynn looked at her. “Do what?”

  She gestured to the stars and the helm, her fingers brushing over one of the wooden spokes. “Navigate,” she said. “How do you know where you’re going?”

  The Captain paused, considering this. He did not know how to explain it to her, how to convey to Sol Rosebone that the wind had always been his guide, he the follower, and not make it sound as if he’d lost his wits.

  “The stars,” he decided, because even Sol could understand that. “They’re stationary. No matter where you are at sea, that star right there—” Fynn pointed straight ahead. “Will always be south. And that one there—” he pointed again, this time behind him. “Will always be north.”

  Sol hummed a sort of acknowledgement as she stared at the stars above, their light rounding out the soft angles of her cheeks, the slope of her nose. “So you just follow whichever star until you stumble upon your destination?”

  Fynn chuckled quietly. “Sort of,” he said. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, but it’s not impossible to learn. Even Riel can’t screw it up.”

  She tilted her head at him, absently pulling her fingers through Draven’s fur as the direwolf sat patiently at her feet. “What about me?” Sol inquired. “Could I screw it up?”

  He considered this, too, before deciding to hold out his hand. “Come here,” Fynn said, wriggling his fingers and beckoning the Princess to him. “Let’s find out.”

  If she hesitated, she certainly did not give him the satisfaction of seeing it. Sol placed her hand in Fynn’s, her skin warm against the center of his scarred palm as he guided her behind the helm.

  Fynn stood at her back, prepared to take the wheel from her if need be. “Place your hands here and here,” he instructed, tapping the appropriate spokes. Sol did as she was told, grasping them with a white-knuckled grip. Fynn breathed a laugh behind her. “Not so tight. The wheel isn’t going anywhere.”

  She loosened her grip. “Now what?”

  Fynn reached over her shoulder and pointed. “Keep the bowsprit aligned with the southern star to keep our current course. The sea is calm, so it shouldn’t be difficult.”

  “And if it does get difficult?”

  “Then I’m right here to fix it.”

  Sol tossed him a look over her shoulder, her hazel eyes swallowed entirely by the moonlight. She said nothing, simply met his gaze for a quick, fleeting moment before turning back to the helm, squinting at the end of the bowsprit. Fynn did not disgrace her by laughing.

  They stood together in silence as she sailed, Sol adjusting the wheel at even the slightest deviation from their course. Her eagerness to do well warmed his heart, the seriousness for which she conducted this task. He could not have asked for anything more.

  Fynn studied her, the length of her fingers as she drummed them against the helm. As she smiled and sighed contentedly. Sol tipped her head back and closed her eyes, and he watched the way she drank in the starlight, like the rivers of land drank from the heart of the sea.

  He could get used to this, he realized. Seeing Sol Rosebone at the helm.

  Such realizations had Fynn reeling back, yielding to this beautiful thing that would not last beyond their eventual arrival in Nedros. His heart stalled, an old wound opening deep inside him, one still raw and bleeding. Fynn stepped away
from the helm, from Sol, and used his Magic to force cold air into his lungs.

  She must have heard him gasp. “Is everything all right?” Sol asked, spinning on her heels to look at him, the helm and stars be damned. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No,” Fynn answered, dragging a hand through his hair. He’d be damned if he ruined this moment for her. “You’re doing great, actually. Far better than Riel’s first time at the wheel. Vasil nearly threw her overboard.”

  “She’d slap you silly if she heard you say that.”

  “She would,” he agreed. Fynn stuffed his hands into his pockets, wincing at the sharp point that stabbed into the pad of his finger. “Oh,” he remembered, wrapping the object in his fist. “I forgot—I got something for you in the market yesterday.”

  The Princess turned to him again, her head tilted curiously to one side. “You didn’t need to get me anything, Fynn. The cloak you stole was enough.”

  Indeed, she was still wearing it despite the stifling heat.

  “This is different, I promise.” Fynn withdrew the gift from his pocket. “You weren’t going to buy it for yourself, so I took the liberty of getting it for you. Consider it a thank you for the kiss.”

  Sol slapped his shoulder.

  Fynn laughed, opening his fist to offer her the puka shell bracelet.

  Her intake of air was audible, stirring the breath in Fynn’s own chest. She gingerly took the bracelet. “Fynn…”

  The Captain bit his lip. He wondered if the tears welling in her eyes were a sign that he’d overstepped some invisible boundary. “I paid for it, if that makes you feel any better. I typically don’t steal unless I have to.”

  And paid for it he had—generously. Fynn had tossed three golden coins onto the merchant’s table just before he’d dragged Sol into the shadows, swiping the bracelet and shoving it into his pocket for safekeeping. It was far more than the shells were worth, but Fynn hadn’t cared to spare the money.

  Sol treated the shells as if they were shimmering glass, admiring each one as she circled the bracelet. “It’s beautiful,” she sighed happily. “I can’t believe you did this.”