Sins of the Sea

by Laila Winters

  Fynn chuckled. “You’re in the middle of the ocean,” he pointed out. “I’d be more concerned if you didn’t feel this way.”

  Nodding, Sol sent another plume of water hurtling into the clouds above. “I don’t think we’re going to outrun the worst of it.”

  Panic coiled in his chest, slithering around his heart and gripping its beating in a vice. “Neither do I,” he confessed. “It’s moving too fast. I could turn us around and use my Magic to carry us away, but it wouldn’t be enough. My wind only runs so deep, and I’m certain it’d die out before this storm does.”

  Already, nature’s own winds were fierce, rivaling what breeze Fynn could conjure.

  But perhaps if he pushed himself to his limits, Fynn could put enough distance between his ship and this storm to ride out the worst of it from afar. He’d barely touched his Magic since they’d drifted into Taesean waters, but it had been so long since he’d navigated these currents that he was not sure he could steer the Refuge to safety. It would be easy to get turned around backward, to lose themselves in the heart of the Emerald and spend days trying to correct their course.

  Lightning pierced between the clouds, diving into the sea and flickering out beneath the waves. Fynn cursed and gripped the wheel. “Get below deck,” he told Sol. “Send Amael and Riel up on your way down.”

  Sol frowned at him. “I want to help.”

  “You are helping,” he said. “If I know you’re safe below deck, that’s less I have to worry about. Besides, Draven and Indyr will need you. Gracia, too, if she’s panicking. She’s afraid of thunder.”

  Fynn could sense her hesitation, could taste it on his tongue as surely as he could taste his Magic. She wanted to argue, wanted to spit at him that she could be of some use as the ship began to rock beneath their feet. More than three months on the Refuge, and Sol’s disposition had morphed her into some unruly tyrant who dared put Fynn in his place.

  He enjoyed it, the fight and confidence still slowly emerging from the Princess.

  But not today. Not in this moment. Not when she was not safe.

  “I’m a Water-Wielder,” she reminded him. “If you need my help—”

  “I’ll send for you,” he vowed. “But it won’t come to that.”

  Before she could sulk below deck—she only ever pushed him so far—Fynn abandoned the helm and held Sol’s face between his hands. He brushed his thumb across her cheek, and Sol took it upon herself to rise onto her toes and press her lips against the Captain’s. He would never get used to this, the way his Magic sang in her embrace, the way it howled a symphony beneath his skin.

  “Be careful,” Sol murmured against his mouth. “Please.”

  Fynn pulled away and pressed a kiss to her brow. “As you command, your Majesty.”

  Sol punched him lightly in the chest. “Don’t call me that.”

  He chuckled and stepped away entirely. “Get below deck.”

  The Princess sighed and kissed his cheek. “Be careful,” she said again, concern lining her eyes. “I’ll send up the heathens.”

  Fynn tracked her movements as she left, as she slipped down the quarterdeck stairs and staggered to Riel and Amael, the latter gripping her arms to steady her. Fynn watched as they spoke in hushed tones, as Amael nudged Sol towards the stairwell that led below deck. He watched her until she disappeared, Draven in tow and Indyr cowering in her arms.

  His Quartermaster and boatswain quickly joined him at the helm, Riel’s face drawn with grim resolve. “What are your orders? This storm is going to be a nasty one. Even my Magic is restless, and we’re so far from land that it shouldn’t be.”

  “Sol said the same thing,” Fynn sighed, wincing at a clap of thunder. “Drop the sails and tie down the supports. Tie down anything that can be tossed overboard, and send the rest of the crew below deck. Tell Luca I want him on standby.”

  Amael placed his hands on his hips. “What about Sol?”

  The Captain shook his head. “She stays below with the others.”

  “She’s been practicing with Luca every day, Fynn. She can handle this if we let her help.”

  He gripped the helm so hard his fingers ached. “Not this time,” Fynn said. “She’s not ready, and I won’t have her getting tossed into the Emerald.”

  Riel snorted. “She’s a Water-Wielder. The sea would throw her back.”

  “I said no.”

  Riel groaned, rolling her eyes to the wicked sky above. “I hate when you’re this infatuated with someone,” she complained. “If I didn’t like Sol, and if I didn’t think the wolf would eat me, I’d toss her overboard myself just to snap you back into your senses.”

  Thunder clashed loud enough it rattled Fynn’s teeth, and a slow, cold drizzle began to patter against the planks. Fynn blanched. He could argue with Riel later. “Drop the sails, tie everything down, and get the others below deck. Now.”

  Fynn heaved the wheel to the left, using his Magic to fill the sails while he still had them to fill. He sailed west, angling the ship against the oncoming storm and praying that the masts held strong. Without the added pull against the main and mizzenmast sails, Amael rushing to crank them down and tie them off with rope, they might stand a chance against the wind beginning to sweep over the deck. But if the foresail split or the mast snapped in two, the Refuge would be dead in the water.

  The ship rocked beneath Fynn’s feet, teetering over the waves that lapped at the groaning hull. Riel had just finished ushering the crew below deck when the first onslaught of saltwater crashed over the ship’s banister, slicking the planks with seafoam.

  Amael cursed, wrapping a line of rope around his wrist and anchoring himself to the mizzenmast. Already, the boatswain was drenched, his clothes clinging to his body as a second wave rose and curled over the deck.

  Bracing himself against the helm, Fynn drew in a breath through his nose. He exhaled, and a blast of icy wind speared for the wave that would likely have swept Amael out to sea, rope and mast be damned. Water exploded where air struck, droplets raining down over the ship, and Amael looked at Fynn and smiled gratefully.

  “Fynn!” Riel called to him, hugging the threshold leading below deck. She’d split the wood with her Magic, barricading the stairwell to keep water from flooding down the steps. “What’d you do to piss off Thymis?”

  “Harbor a runaway Princess!” He yelled back to her. “She’s the patron goddess of Dyn, and I stole away the Crown Prince’s bride!”

  Even over the howling wind and deafening roar of the sea, Fynn heard her groan. “Why that one?” she cried. “Why not the god of mountains when their whole godsdamn kingdom is built around them.”

  “There is no god of mountains.”

  “Well, there should be!” Riel snapped. Her hair clung to her face, braids limp over her shoulders. “Had you pissed off that one, we wouldn’t be near drowning in the Emerald!”

  “No,” Amael agreed, gritting his teeth as he dug his nails into the mast. “But we’d have been crushed by a rockslide in Arrowbrook.”

  Fynn tuned them out, the deck of his ship illuminated with a flash of lightning that forked into the water below. Close—these strikes of lightning were too close. If they struck any part of the Refuge, Fynn and his crew were as dead as—

  “Fynn, look out!”

  The Captain whirled on his heels, Riel’s voice like a physical blow knocking him away from the helm.

  A tidal wave barreled for his ship, the ocean’s wrath charging from the wrong direction. Water crested high above the stern, taller than the ship’s mainmast, and there was nothing that Fynn could do to stop it, no Magic he could summon that would blast that wave into oblivion.

  Thymis had certainly grown to hate him. Had cursed him. Had chosen this fate with his love for her waters in mind.

  Fynn sank against the helm, his knees buckling underneath him. He could not contend with the sea, he could not save his crew. He was no master of the tide.

  They would die here, that wave would drown
them. There would be nothing left for even the bounty hunters to find.

  “Sol, no!”

  Fynn nearly hung himself on the wheel. He turned so sharply that his boots slid through seafoam, and he careened between the spokes of the helm. Sol Rosebone was standing on his deck, her curling hair swept back into a messy braid. She’d shoved Riel aside, the Quartermaster still panting as if they had both put up a fight, and Sol had bested her in the end.

  The Princess looked at Fynn, her hazel eyes boring into his own even with the distance between them. He shook his head, horror lancing up the length of his spine. “Sol,” he rasped, but he knew that she could not hear him, knew the wind and rain and roiling waves had smothered his voice into silence.

  Sol blinked, her focus shifting to the towering wall hurtling for the Refuge. Fynn knew what she would do before she raised her hands, before she yielded a step back and flung out her Magic in a devastating wave of her own. He felt it from the quarterdeck, the swell of power that blasted from Sol into the Emerald.

  “Fynn, stop her!” Amael screamed, hacking at the rope he’d twined around his wrist with a knife. “She doesn’t have the power to stop it! She’ll get herself killed!”

  But the Captain could not move, could not tear himself away from the helm. His own Magic rooted him to the planks, trapping him in a suffocating vice where he could not breathe despite gasping air into his lungs.

  Sol grunted, yielding another step as she kept her hands held in front of her. She was trembling, either from the freezing rain or the devastating strain of her Magic, the Captain couldn’t be certain. Her eyes fluttered, and it wouldn’t be long until her water dragged her away.

  “Please,” Fynn whispered, to Sol, to Thymis, to any of the Gods who were listening. “Stop.”

  And stop it did, indeed.

  Sol screamed through gritted teeth, and that was blood dripping from her nose. She thrust out her hands until her arms would stretch no further.

  Amael severed through the rope around his wrist and dropped to both knees against the mast. His eyes opened wide, his mouth falling slack as if unhinged, and he pointed a shaking finger beyond the stern of the ship.

  The Captain reeled, mindful of the seafoam lest he kiss the planks at his feet, and again the air whooshed from his lungs. The tidal wave roaring for the Refuge, looming over the masts and reaching skyward like wrathful hands seeking vengeance…

  It stopped.

  Soaring above the quarterdeck, the chaos stood still; should it fall, it would crash over the ship and wash it away to the deepest depths of the sea. But it lingered, foam trickling from curling rivulets of saltwater.

  If only the Captain dared, and Sol had grown fond of daring him, he could stretch out his hand and dip his fingers into the sea.

  She had done this—the Princess of Sonamire had stilled the force of nature, had stilled the Emerald and held the weight of its current. Fynn had never seen anything like it, and Sol Rosebone had stilled him, too.

  A sharp cry escaped from her, and Sol thrust out her hands one more time. The wave reared up higher, higher, higher until the crest of the wave toppled back the way it came, furling away from the Refuge. It thundered back down into the sea, and the ship did not move in its wake, did not move even an inch as the force of the flood dug deep, deep below the ocean’s surface and splitting the Emerald in two. Fynn glimpsed the coral-obscured seabed.

  Sol’s Magic finally gave out, or she succumbed to such power in her veins, to Wielding such devastating strength. She collapsed to the deck as the Emerald settled beneath them.

  A dull roar filled the Captain’s ears.

  Sol Rosebone had done what he could not and have saved his ship and crew.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  FYNN

  He took the steps in twos and threes, slid through seafoam until there was nothing left but air and consciousness separating Fynn from Sol. The Captain dropped to his knees, bending over the Princess and touching his hand to her cheek. He wiped the blood from her face, the consequence of Sol’s hidden Magic, his trembling fingers stained red.

  “Sol,” he whispered, finding solace in the warm breath that brushed against his palm. Fynn gently tapped her cheek, her shoulder, reached for her hand and squeezed. The Princess did not stir, her eyes did not so much as flutter. A whimper cracked out of Fynn, his frenzied heart lodged in the back of his throat. “Sol.”

  Luca joined him on the deck, kneeling near Sol’s head and cursing quietly beneath his breath. Saltwater gathered in his palms, and Luca pressed his fingers to Sol’s temples. Fynn held his breath as Luca’s brow creased, as his mouth tipped with a frown. “She’s fine.”

  Fynn blinked at him. “Fine?” he repeated. “She’s unconscious.”

  Luca flinched at the break in his Captain’s voice. “Unconscious because she exerted herself,” he provided. “Because she—”

  “Did what she shouldn’t have done.”

  Riel hovered behind Luca with her arms crossed, concern dimming her eyes despite her frigid tone. “Shouldn’t have been able to do,” she revised. “She stopped a wave that would have flipped this ship. She stopped the storm.”

  Indeed, the sea had gone silent, still, and so had the skies above. Only thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Fynn drew a ragged breath. “I know.”

  Luca released his Magic before pushing up his spectacles. Water splashed over the planks. “I saw it,” he said quietly. “From the stairwell. I tried to stop her when she came up, but she heard Riel yell for you. She thought you were in trouble.”

  “I was,” Fynn said numbly. “We all were.”

  What she’d done, the way she had faced the Emerald… Fynn could not fathom it. He could not wrap his mind around the power she’d exuded just to save them.

  “Your Princess has been holding out on us,” Riel sniped. Fynn lifted his head and glared at her, at the nerve and lack of gratitude from his Quartermaster. “Seriously, did you not see what she did? I’ve never seen a Water-Wielder that powerful, Fynn. Or any Wielder for that matter. If she could do that this whole time—”

  “She saved your life,” Fynn snapped at her, then dragged a hand through his hair. “Who gives a damn if she was leashing her Magic.”

  “I do,” Riel said. “And so should you. I’m tired of all these secrets, especially when it comes to her Majesty. I thought we were past this.”

  It was Amael who spoke before Fynn could come to Sol’s defense, the boatswain shuffling behind him. “I don’t think she knew that she had this kind of strength.” Amael rubbed his jaw as if to relieve some tension that was building there. “Her biggest threat was Thane, not her Magic. She had no reason to keep it hidden.”

  Riel snorted. “So you think she rallied that much power because our beloved Captain was in danger?”

  Amael leveled a look at her. “Yes.”

  Luca hummed his agreement.

  Fynn pinched the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb. He could not do this, could not deal with Riel while Sol was unconscious between them. “Think what you want,” he said, allowing his frustration to dwindle. Riel could draw whatever such conclusions she desired, and they could have it out later when the Princess was back on her feet. “I’m taking her to my cabin to rest.”

  “Of course you are.” Riel spun on her heels and turned her back to Fynn. “I’m going to check on Gracia. Not all of us can part the sea and live to tell the tale.”

  She was thundering across the deck before Fynn could demand she stay, could insist that she was wrong about Sol. If she’d known she possessed such strength, Sol would not have kept it from Fynn. There were only so few secrets still between them.

  “She’ll likely sleep until morning,” Luca spoke softly, bracing a hand on Fynn’s shoulder and hoisting himself up onto his feet. “I’ll examine her again when she wakes, but I think she’ll be fine. Her Magic, on the other hand…” Luca bit his lip. “I’d suggest not letting her touch it too soon. I don’t kno
w how she’s still breathing.”

  Fynn returned his attention to Sol. He monitored the rise of her chest, letting his own lungs expand with the knowledge that she was indeed still breathing. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  Luca hesitated, but he did not need clarification. “No,” he admitted. “Even I couldn’t have done what she did. But isn’t her brother a powerful Wielder? Perhaps it runs in their family.”

  “Perhaps,” Fynn agreed absently. “Is it safe to move her?”

  “Yes,” Luca said, stepping back as Fynn slid his arms beneath Sol.

  It was not difficult to lift her, to cradle Sol against the swell of his chest and hold her tightly against him. Sol’s head rolled against his shoulder. “If you need me—”

  “We’ll survive without you for a few hours,” Amael assured him, smiling tightly at his Captain. “Sol, however… I’ll shake her awake if we’re in danger of being sunk by another tidal wave.” He moved closer, dropping his voice so that only Fynn might hear him. “Don’t worry about Riel. I think what happened scared the shit out of her.”

  Fynn nodded and shifted his feet. “I know it did,” he said. “Talk some sense into her, will you? And set the crew straight on whatever they might have seen or heard.”

  Amael clapped him on the shoulder. “Consider it done. Let me know when she wakes up.”

  She did not move for hours, did nothing more than breathe and sleep and occasionally twitch her fingers. Fynn studied her with a critical eye, preparing himself to call for Luca at the first sign Sol was in distress. He’d perched himself on the edge of his bed, and he did not leave her side, did not let his eyes stray too far from her face. Draven was sprawled at Sol’s feet, Indyr still below deck with Gracia.

  Fynn buried his face into his palms.

  They had shared this bed ever since Sol had decided to stay on the Refuge.