“Why?”
It did not occur to her until after the word had left her mouth. Sol, as someone pretending to be from the port, should know why.
But if he caught the fault in her ruse, he did not acknowledge it. “Because they’re envious of what they don’t have.” Fynn hooked his hair behind his ear. “Wielders are snatched up by Sonamire’s army and are offered better positions with higher pay. Those without Magic, like the guards in Valestorm, are left to do the jobs no one wants. Most of them will never leave that port.”
Sol swallowed. “I never realized. I suppose I’ve always seen the same guards.”
Fynn shrugged. “Even the King’s own son is a Wielder. A general of his army, too.”
“Is that common knowledge?”
Silas led his own legion of Fire-Wielders, though they had not seen combat since the war.
“I guess it depends on who you ask. I hear things.”
Sol did not want to think about her brother, of the possibility that it may be years until she saw him again. She removed the blanket from around her shoulders and held it out to Fynn. “Here,” she said. “It’s a bit wet, but I have another one. Amael promised that my cloak would be washed by morning.”
Fynn frowned at her. “I don’t need it—”
“It’s freezing,” Sol said. “And I’d prefer you not die before we reach Nedros.”
He sketched her a playful bow, his dark hair spilling over his shoulders. “I shall wear such a vestment with honor. Thank you, milady.”
Sol rolled her eyes to the sky. “Goodnight, Fynn.”
The Captain smiled in earnest and returned his attention to the sea. “Goodnight, Sol. I’ll see you in the morning. And don’t sleep near the bow. To Hell with whatever Riel told you.”
The Princess was inclined to agree.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FYNN
Warmer seas meant that the crew of the Refuge had finally woken in good spirits. West of the Irican continent, the Dryu Islands were known for their eternal summers and the blistering heat Amael claimed could melt the flesh from one’s bones.
Fynn was not prepared for their arrival, for the hostile natives to approach his ship with whips and spears and demand that Amael be handed over.
He braced his arms against the railing of the quarterdeck, watching his crew down below. They were bustling about the deck and tending to their morning duties: cleaning the lines, scrubbing the planks, watering the small garden near the mizzenmast that Riel often tended to with her Magic. Fynn could not remember the last time he’d seen them so jovial, their laughter infectious as they pushed and shoved and romped about the deck with grins as wide as the sea. Even Arden was smiling faintly from the rigging, her head tipped back as the sunlight warmed her cheeks.
The violent retching from the prow of the ship did not seem to deter them.
“She’s been here for three weeks,” Riel mused. She was perched on the banister next to Fynn, her long legs dangling over the edge of the quarterdeck. “You’d think she’d be through with this by now. I’m tired of listening to her vomit all day.”
Fynn rolled his eyes to the endless sky above. “If I recall, Gray only recently stopped hurling up her guts every hour. You were far more patient with her.”
“I like her.”
“You have no reason not to like Sol.”
Riel cleaned the dirt from beneath her fingernails with the sharp point of a knife. “She’s more trouble than she’s worth.”
Fynn angled himself towards her and sighed. “How?”
“The Rosebone family is known for that ugly red hair of hers, which isn’t exactly common outside of Sonamire. She sticks out like a sore thumb. Once people realize she’s missing, and if we’re caught with her…” Riel glanced at the deck below, but it was not Sol her eyes lingered on. Gracia was helping Amael coax the Princess through her heaving. “She’s not the one that’ll pay the price.”
The Captain ran his fingers through his own hair. “I don’t know why she ran away, and I doubt she’ll ever tell me, but I could not leave her in that port, Riel. We’ve been through this.”
“Yes, because you’re such a noble hero.”
Fynn contemplated shoving her over the rail. “I’ll make a deal with you.”
His Quartermaster quirked an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
“Fight me.”
Riel grinned at him. “You won’t win.”
Fynn retrieved a dented metal sword from an iron canister nailed to the helm. The bronze pommel was cool against his skin, a welcomed contrast to the stifling heat as the sun rose high above the sea. But as his fingers found their grip, as he grasped the weapon with a familiarity that would later haunt him in his sleep, Fynn found himself regretting this challenge.
He hated this sword, hated that he knew what to do with it. Where to strike. How to kill his Quartermaster in ways she could not fathom.
Fynn beckoned her down from the banister. “I will win,” he said. “And when I do, you have to stop complaining about Sol. You have to be nice to her.”
“And when I win,” Riel said, sliding off the railing. “Your Princess either walks the plank or we abandon her in the next port to become someone else’s problem.”
He squeezed the hilt of his sword. “Deal.”
Riel pulled her own sword from the bin, twirling it with an elegant flourish. “Deal. But no Magic. Swords only.”
Fynn snorted. “Like I’d need Magic to beat you.”
The Quartermaster lunged for her Captain with a battle cry. Fynn twisted out of reach, his heart slamming against his ribcage. Too easy. It was far too easy for him to fall into old ways as he raised his sword and parried Riel’s blade.
The clash of steel roused the attention of their crew, sparks igniting between the metal.
He pressed her forward with the flat of his blade and backed Riel towards the stairwell. He fought her down onto the main deck, the steps too narrow for either of them to properly spar.
The crew of the Refuge circled around them.
Amael cupped his hands around his mouth and cried, “Take her down, Cap!”
This earned him a vicious swing of Riel’s sword, the flat of her blade slapping hard enough against his shoulder to leave a bruise.
“Please don’t kill each other,” Luca groaned. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
Gracia pumped her fist into the air. “Get him, Riel!” Fynn stuck his tongue out at her.
“Shouldn’t we stop them?” Sol was half hidden behind Amael, her face still a bit green.
“They do this all the time,” Amael told her, rubbing his shoulder where Riel’s blade had struck. “They’ll be fine. My money is on Fynn.”
Panting for air, Riel turned to Amael and pointed the blade at his chest. “Watch it, swabbie, or I’ll mop the deck with you next.”
Fynn knocked her blade away. “Funny,” he mused. “Weren’t you the ship’s swab when I came aboard? Amael has always been the boatswain.”
“What’s a boatswain?” Sol asked Amael.
Riel charged at Fynn as Amael explained that his job was to maintain the ship.