by Alex Lidell
Stars. Kyra sat, pulling her knees up to her chin. A naval ship. With guns and orders and battles. Were any of the seamen even literate?
A thin prick of pain lanced Kyra’s hand, and she opened her palm to find she’d squeezed the pin hard enough that its sharp corners pierced her skin. Rain diluted the drop of blood, the pink liquid running down the groove of her hand. Just like soldiers to turn even a decoration into a weapon. She really should give the pin back to Hunter. It was the right thing to do, especially after Hunter had protected her cloak from the rain and kept her company last night. Even if he hadn’t known he was doing the latter.
All she had to do was go to the Spardic camp and hand it over. Kyra’s shoulders tightened but she made herself rise. If she couldn’t summon the courage to walk into a training camp to return a lost pin, how in the name of stars would she survive on a naval ship? Perhaps the fates had left the pin here on purpose to guide her way. To challenge her into finding a home.
Kyra walked along the top of the ridge toward the sounds of the Spardic Spades. The camp lay on the ocean side of the ridge, and finding a safe path down on that side might take some time, but Kyra little minded. The view was good, and it would be nice to see what she’d be walking into, to check whether Hunter was even there, before strolling into a nest of trained killers. Around Kyra, the wind and rain danced along with her steps, marrying the salt of the sea with the sweet scent of sap and pine of the forest. On her right, seagulls squawked and circled the waves, landing on the occasional piece of floating wood. On her left, an eagle rose above the treetops, silently seeking a kill.
By the time Kyra reached the Spades a half an hour later, her hopes of a safe descent down the limestone had all but vanished. There was no safe descent here. Not even if the stone wasn't weeping in rainy streams. Maybe she could call to Hunter, toss the pin down, and leave.
Sitting down on the ridge, Kyra studied the camp sprawled on the narrow rocky beach sandwiched between the Ardent Ocean and the cliffs. Except for a pair of tents that must belong to the unit’s commanders, whatever shelter the Spades had used to sleep was now put away. The soldiers were training, teams of men carrying logs over their heads as they ran in and out of the bubbly turf, while a smaller contingent of women fired muskets at distant targets.
Kyra studied their faces, trying and failing to pick Hunter out from the crowd. Perhaps he wasn’t here. Perhaps Hunter wasn’t a Spade at all.
Kyra saw him a moment after the soldiers did, strolling along the beach toward the training camp, which had gone still at the sentry’s call. The men bearing logs set their burdens down in neat piles, sand clinging to their wet clothing. Women shouldered their muskets. Although the wind and distance swallowed the noise, Kyra knew that silence ruled the beach.
Kyra’s gaze focused on Hunter, whose blond hair trailed behind him in the chill wind. His face was high to welcome the downpour, his hands casually in his pockets. The distance and presence of the dozens of others masked the taste of whatever Hunter was feeling, but she didn’t need to be an empath to sense the crackling tension filling the air. Unlike the wet, sand-caked clothes of his companions, Hunter’s ink-black uniform was pristine, the gold epaulettes and pins on his collar shining in the scant sun. If the pin Kyra clutched in her hand left a hole in Hunter’s set of decorations, it was one a casual onlooker would easily miss.
Hunter stopped in the middle of the camp. Shoulders spread, chest out, hands out of his pockets now, with fingers stretched down along the seam of his pants. A statue. The watching soldiers exchanged glances.
A minute passed with no motion but a shift of weight in the watching crowd, and the smallest of the Spades darting into the commander’s tent. Another minute. Five. Ten. Kyra’s legs fell asleep, and she shifted, tucking her cloak beneath herself. Fifteen minutes and Hunter still hadn’t moved, the water running off him now a puddle around his feet. The others too held their places, their heads turning toward each other and the command tent with increasing frequency.
“What did you do, Hunter?” Kyra whispered into the wind, her chest tight.
Twenty minutes. Twenty-five. A full half hour, when the Spade commander finally ducked out of his tent and stalked to Hunter. Twice Hunter’s age, with a peppering of gray in his black hair and a musket slung over his large shoulders, the commander had the aura of a man who Kyra hoped never to be alone with. Power clung to him like fog. No, like a great gray storm cloud ready to explode at any moment.
One by one, every Spade pressed a fist to his heart as the commander passed. Every Spade but Hunter, who still stood statue still, only his hair whipped in the wind like a flag of defiance to the soldiers’ perfect order.
Kyra’s heart quickened. In Hunter’s place, she’d have melted into the sand by now. She was melting into the rock just watching.
The Commander stopped before Hunter, crossing muscular arms over his chest. The words exchanged didn’t reach Kyra’s ears, but with each passing sentence, the commander’s chest puffed out a bit more, his fists clenching and unclenching until he finally spat on the ground.
For the first time since walking onto the beach, Hunter moved. Slowly. Precisely. As if careful to give no sign of aggression as he raised his hands up to his lapel and undid the pins clipped there. One by one, he tossed the gold bits to the soggy sand at the commander’s boots. The golden epaulettes received the same treatment a moment later. Hunter dropped his hands to his sides again, and stared into the commander’s face. Perfectly erect. Perfectly still. And waiting.
The camp stilled with Hunter, holding a collective breath.
The commander unslung his musket, and Kyra stuffed a fist into her mouth. It wouldn’t help to scream. Wouldn’t save Hunter’s life. She squeezed the pin in her hand, letting its edges dig into her skin. The dog. The thought came unbidden into Kyra’s head. Hunter had left his dog somewhere, awaiting a master who would never return.
“I’ll take care of your dog,” Kyra whispered, the limestone digging into her knees.
On the sand below, the commander raised his musket.
Hunter raised his chin.
The commander’s face pulled back in a snarl as he twisted his weapon and slammed the musket’s stock into Hunter’s abdomen. For an absurd moment, relief washed over Kyra, a ludicrous, disgusting relief that a man was getting a beating. That he’d return to his dog.
Hunter dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. The moment he could move, he rose to one knee, braced his hands against his bent leg to push himself upright, straightening slowly to his full height. His arms dropped to his sides.
The commander’s second blow was as vicious as the first. When the third one landed, Kyra scrambled away from the ledge to empty her stomach into the lone bush peeking out through a crack in the stones. She wasn’t going back to see how it ended, and she doubted Hunter would want his pin back now anyway.
Chapter 5
Nile
“What the hell were you thinking, Nile?” Domenic demands, bursting into the room Prince Tamiath and I share at Port Mead’s best dockside inn. Domenic’s uniform is still soaked from the rain beating the windows, and water drips from him onto the wooden floor. The war games ended hours ago, but Domenic had kept his Raptor at sea, running and rerunning the course long after the admiralty hauled the exercise flags down. Getting control of himself, Domenic draws breath and repeats in a more measured tone, “What were you thinking?”
Before I can reply, Aaron looks up from the chessboard he and I are hunched over and twists toward the door. “I imagine Nile was thinking that she won,” he drawls, his curly golden hair catching glints of the firelight beside us. “And you…lost.”
I kick Aaron’s shin. My blood brother means well, but his dislike of Domenic only feeds the tension that’s been simmering between Domenic and me for months, ever since the Felielle Admiralty chose Domenic to command Raptor, and I chose to remain in command of my little Eclipse instead of following as his subordinate to the larger f
rigate.
Aaron raises his palms, his light green eyes proclaiming innocence. “Did I not hear the events correctly? I was certain the word on the docks is that a little fourteen-gun ship came in second only to Zolan’s Lily, leaving Captain Dana behind to polish his pride with a toothbrush.”
Domenic opens his mouth but Tam—sitting a few paces away at the breakfast table—clears his throat before anyone can say more. “Captain Dana.” Tam’s calm melodic voice chimes like a bell between us, the prince’s manicured brows and perfect face contorting into resigned wariness. “Please come inside and close the door. Might I get you a drink?”
Coloring, Domenic bows quickly to the prince and murmurs an apology while I swallow a sigh. That Domenic failed to note Tamiath’s presence until now bodes poorly for the rest of the evening’s conversation.
Domenic closes the door and removes his dripping hat and boots before advancing into the room. His back is straight as always, but the cold dusts his lips with a blue tinge, and his muscles shiver beneath his soggy shirt. Seeing the fire, Domenic removes his wet coat as well.
“Anything else you wish to take off?” Aaron slides a lazy gaze over Domenic’s sculpted chest. “Please, don’t stop on our account.”
Storms and hail. Domenic’s color shifts from pink to white to a deep burgundy that clashes with his sea-blue eyes.
“Ignore him,” I tell Domenic. Hooking a chair with my boot, I slide it toward him, coaxing the man to come closer to the warm flames before speaking again. Despite my light tone, my chest is tight with the knowledge that the conversation Aaron tried so hard to shield me from now hangs poised to strike.
Domenic’s hands grip the wooden back of the chair, but he remains standing. “You risked yourself over a game, Nile,” he says finally, his voice quiet and controlled as he looks down at me. “Made a mockery of the admiralty’s rules. You think cheating is going to ingratiate you with anyone in the navy?”
I think it’s easy to follow the rules when they are skewed in your favor. “I didn’t cheat,” I say, keeping my voice even in a mirror of his. “I used the rules to creative advantage when the whole power of the Felielle Admiralty was stacked against me for the sin of being born female. The war games exercise had an objective. I met it. If losing to a girl from Ashing makes the Felielle navy uncomfortable, then they need to wipe their noses and rethink their views.”
Clearing his throat, Tam rises to his feet and pulls Aaron out the back door, which swings closed silently on well-oiled hinges. I wish it creaked, for the sudden silence is stifling.
A heartbeat passes. Two. The crackling of the fire marks the time and casts dancing shadows along Domenic’s angular jaw. We’ve had little time together since separating to serve on different ships. Eclipse’s and Raptor’s business keep us occupied but for an occasional evening stolen between exercises and orders and repairs. Something I can’t put my finger on has changed in the past three months of the Tirik war, blanketing all the sailors and soldiers with unease.
A log in the fire breaks in two, and my heart cracks with it. I don’t want this fight. I long for Domenic to draw me into his arms with raw, unchecked need. I want him to celebrate my small victory, the rules and dangers be damned to a bloody hell. “Please just say ‘congratulations,’” I whisper. “The admiralty might have my hide tomorrow, but you, tonight, please just say ‘good work,’ and leave it at that.”
Domenic’s jaw tightens as if he’s tasting his own words before they come. “I can’t congratulate you for risking your life, Nile.” He covers the space between us in two large steps and crouches before my chair. His hand rises to my face, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers, calloused and still cold, cup my chin. Worry and concern spill from his gaze into mine. “Never mind that you could have capsized your whole ship,” he whispers. “I damn well know that your body pays dearly for these outbursts. You think congratulations is what’s coming to my mind when I see you choking or writhing on the floor? When you bite your tongue so hard, it’s a miracle you don’t drown on your own blood, and I can do nothing but watch?”
“It’s my body,” I say softly, leaning toward him until my mouth is close enough to seal his lips into silence at a moment's notice. “I’ll decide what it can bear. I think we can both agree that the last time you tried to decide that for me, it ended poorly.”
“Nile—” Domenic breathes, but that is as far as I let him get before covering his mouth with mine.
“And where is our favorite Captain Dana?” Aaron asks, returning with Tam and Bear in tow. Outside, the rain has stopped, but the darkening sky shows few stars thanks to lingering clouds. “You two were getting along so well when we left.”
Wiggling past Aaron, Bear jumps on me with both paws and sniffs. “I’m fine, you beast,” I tell him, defending myself from the dog’s wet nose. “I’ve only been alone a few hours.” Pushing Bear away, I cringe at the room’s new wet-dog scent. “Domenic wanted to run the Raptor through another sail drill and search the ship’s spirits the sailors no doubt smuggled aboard in barrels by now,” I tell Aaron with a non-challenge I’ve perfected in the past months. As if talking about the Raptor costs me nothing.
Tam takes Aaron’s coat from him and hangs it alongside his own on a hook beside the back door. “Did you two come to an understanding about this morning’s exercise?” the prince asks. “Are you a resourceful young officer or a cheating scoundrel?”
“The question remains open.” I cross my arms and glance out the window at the scurrying foot traffic. Port Mead’s central location makes it a favorable meeting point, and between the Spardic Spades, Felielle navy, and Biron’s own land and sea forces, the streets are filled to bursting with people. “We’ll let the admiralty decide when they announce the results tomorrow morning.” I hope they’ll have decided how I’m getting to the Diante Empire as well. We are due to set sail in two weeks.
Aaron strides over to the table, where a servant left a tray with fresh bread, butter, and jam to tide Prince Tamiath and Princess Nile over until dinner. “My offer to find a courtesan still stands, you know,” Aaron says over his shoulder as he pulls a heel of fluffy bread apart. “Someone knowledgeable. Good. Someone who can make your first time enjoyable, take the mystery out of it.”
My face heats.
“Aaron.” A low warning from Tam.
“How is she supposed to bed a man if she can’t even talk about it?” Aaron demands, spreading his hands. “As her brother, it’s my duty to help with such things. I’m certain I can find her something better than that righteous prat.”
“His name is Domenic Dana,” Tam says with exaggerated patience.
I glower at Aaron. “And I’m not interested in bedding a man.”
“Why, in the Goddess’s name, him?” Aaron throws up his hands. “You both want to be captains. Of ships. On an ocean. Sailing for a long time in different directions. And might I remind you that the prat had you flogged?”
I cock a brow at him. Aaron’s meeting with Tam had been no less bloody. “Pot. Kettle. Black.” Grabbing the bread in Aaron’s hand for myself, I turn to Tamiath. “Have you heard back from Spardic Command about Catsper?”
I know the news isn’t good when Tam puts a hand on my shoulder before speaking. “Between the odd uptick in the Tirik Republic’s aggression and the Spades’ recent losses, Spardic Command isn’t releasing anyone just now. Catsper will be unable to come with you. I’m sorry, Nile.”
“Are we expecting someone?” Aaron interrupts. His head is turned to the main door instead of the back entrance we usually use, and there’s a growing sound of footsteps approaching the suite. With a sigh, he strides off to kiss Tam’s lips and slips out the back just as a loud knocking echoes through the room.
I reach for the handle only to jump back as the door flies open and a thin, red-faced man with gray-peppered hair bursts inside.
“Did you hear what your little pet pulled, Tamiath?” the man sputters, his face turning from red to an
alarming shade of purple. “She—”
“If you are referring to Lieutenant Greysik, she is standing right beside you,” says Tam, arching a manicured brow. He shifts his weight and somehow, without moving from his spot, seems to blade his body between me and the newcomer. “Lord Darius,” Tam continues, his voice the perfect cool of royalty, “allow me to present my wife, Her Highness, Princess Nile Greysik of Felielle. Nile, this is my cousin Darius. Lord Vikon’s father.”
Well, that explains Vikon’s delightful personality.
I incline my head to the newcomer. “My lord.”
“I don’t care a damn where she’s standing.” Darius spits the words, advancing on Tam. “Have you heard what happened during the war games today?”
Tam turns gracefully and retrieves a bottle of wine and three glasses from his chest. “The Goddess blessed me with exceptional hearing and attention, so yes.” Pouring the amber liquid into the goblets, Tam hands one to me and the second to Darius, who appears too bewildered to do anything but grab the stem. Tam inhales the aroma of his own drink before speaking. “In fact, Princess Nile and I were just discussing the exercise. To best frigates with trice the armament and crew is quite an accomplishment for a young captain, would you not say?”
Darius’s face contorts into a frown at Tam’s rude deviation from the conversation script Darius had previously worked out for himself. “Pah,” he proclaims finally. “A sloop maneuvers more easily than a frigate, that’s all.”
I smile sweetly. “Thank you for the kind words about my ship. She does handle smartly.”