Amael angled himself between them. “All right, children. Now isn’t the time to—”
“Captain!”
Fynn whipped around to find Gracia half slumped over the quarterdeck banister, her dark blonde hair a stream of gold behind her. “There’s another ship!” she cried, flailing her arms above her head. “Dark blue sails!”
Fynn cursed, wicked and low and filthy.
“What does a blue sail mean?” Sol asked. She dropped her sword and shuffled closer to Fynn.
“They’re rogue bounty hunters,” Riel said curtly. “They’re always looking for a prize, for people with bounties on their heads that they can turn over to city guards. If they see us—”
“You know damn well they have.” Fynn turned to Amael and gently nudged Sol towards him. “Take her to my cabin.”
The Princess’ direwolf emerged from where he lay sprawled in the wake of a shadow. He pressed himself beneath Sol’s palm, his hackles raised as if he sensed her fear.
Sol met Fynn’s stare as Amael took her arm. “Can’t I help?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. The thought of her on this deck when the hunters arrived, when he knew in his heart what they were searching for, made his stomach flip. “You’ll only make matters worse.”
The bounty for a runaway Princess… Fynn could not fathom the amount of gold that Avedis must be offering for her return.
Her mouth dropped open, and Sol’s fingers twitched at her sides. “Are you sure—”
“Captain, they’re close! They’ve got a Magic-Wielder!”
Fynn cursed again. “Get into my cabin and stay there,” he told Sol. “Do not come out until I come for you.”
Sol’s eyes shone with fear as depthless as the sea, a fear so palpable he felt it deep in his own bones. Her bottom lip trembled despite her attempts to steady it between her teeth.
Fynn reached for her hand and gave her a gentle squeeze. “We’ll be fine,” he promised. “We’ve all been trained how to fight.”
She did not look convinced as she gripped his hand hard enough to leave crescent-shaped cuts across his palm. “Even Gracia?”
“Especially Gracia,” Riel snapped at her. “Get your ass into the cabin.”
Amael wrapped his arm around Sol’s shoulders. “You’ll be safe there,” he vowed. “Nothing can get through that door. But we need to prepare for the ship to be boarded by the hunters. We keep all our weapons below deck.”
Perhaps it was the way he smiled at her, his dimpled cheeks a sigil of calm in the chaos, but Sol dipped her chin and let Amael lead her away. Her steps were staggering as she and the boatswain disappeared into Fynn’s cabin.
Fynn waited until she was safely inside, until Amael had closed the heavy wooden door and checked to ensure that Sol had locked it from within. He expelled a breath through his nose as his boatswain began barking out orders, his eyes fluttering shut as a brutal wind filled the sails of his ship.
“You think we can outrun them?” Riel asked.
“No,” Fynn answered. “But the more distance between us, the more time we have to prepare.”
A muscle ticked in Riel’s jaw. “You think they’re here for her?”
“I pray to the Gods that they’re not.”
He would slaughter them all if they were.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FYNN
The blue-sailed bounty hunters hailed from no kingdom in Irica—they hailed from no kingdom at all. A band of seafaring mercenaries, they served no King except those who paid generously for their services.
As he sharpened the chipped blade that Riel had given him, Fynn silently prayed to Thymis. He begged her to sink their ship, to drag the hunters down to the bottom of the sea and let their corpses rot amongst the reefs. The Goddess had always been kind to him. She had always given him what he asked.
But she did not listen to him now.
Fynn pushed his sword through the dark leather scabbard tied around his waist. The enemy ship was fast approaching, and his own had been thrust into chaos. Amael had managed to wrangle their younger, more frightened deckhands below deck, and Riel had spent the better part of half-an-hour arming whoever was willing to fight. The scowl on her face told the Captain it was not many.
Discarded weapons lay strewn across the deck, swords and knives and spears that no one would use. Arden was hastily collecting them lest they be gathered up and wielded by the hunters, but Fynn snatched up a sparkling dagger before she could carry it away. He twirled it between his fingers and brushed his thumb over the cracked hilt forged with jade inlays.
He would plunge this blade into someone’s heart if necessary. Those who threatened his crew did not walk away unscathed.
“Cap,” Amael called.
Fynn turned to find Amael dangling from the rigging, his hand shielding his eyes as he stared into the horizon and frowned. “How much longer do we have?”
“Five, maybe ten minutes. They have a Water-Wielder. They’re shaping the currents to move faster.”
The Captain cursed beneath his breath. “Get your ass down from there and guard the stairwell. They do not make it below deck.”
Amael unraveled himself from the tethered lines and climbed his way down to the deck. He took up his position near the stairwell, touching the hilt of an old, battered sword Riel had given him. Amael would not let the hunters near those stairs if he could help it, and Fynn would thank the Gods for him later.
“I sent Gray below deck.” Riel planted herself next to Fynn as the bounty hunters’ ship drifted into firing range. If Fynn were better trained with a bow, he’d pick out their Captain and shoot an arrow through his heart. “She was panicking. I can take up the helm, if you want.”
“I need you here,” Fynn said. “You, Arden, and Luca are the only other Wielders on this ship, and I don’t suppose Luca is topside.”
“He’s preparing to tend to any injuries. It takes him time to rally that kind of power.”
Fynn gritted his teeth at the thought.
His own Magic raged beneath his skin, whipping through his veins and leaking into the air with his every shuddering breath. A brutal wind tore at the sails of his ship, straining the lines, but he could not steer them to safety. If they had another Wind-Wielder, there was a chance they could outrun the hunters. But Fynn could not do it on his own, and he could not fight the ocean’s current if their Water-Wielder dragged them back.
“What about the Princess?” Riel asked tersely. “Should I guard her Highness’ door?”
He glanced at the solid slab of oak. Despite Amael having promised him that Sol was safely inside, Fynn had tested the door for himself. He’d yanked on the rusted iron crossbar, had rammed his shoulder against the wood until his skin bruised. The door had not yielded to him.
“Amael is close enough,” Fynn decided. His cabin, tucked beneath the quarterdeck, was flanked by the stairwells that led both up and below deck. The boatswain was poised to fight between them. “I need you with me.”
Riel took a breath and turned to face him fully. “I’m sorry about earlier,” she said quietly. Regret creased her brow. “You know I’m only—”