She shook her head so feverishly that her braid slapped against her cheek. “Then—then I’ll go with you,” Sol decided. Fynn opened his mouth to argue, his shoulders squaring as if he’d had this conversation before, but Sol did not dare let him speak. “You can deal with Nero on your own, but we’re both Wielders, and I’m a healer. Should things go bad, I can—”
“No.” Fynn pressed against her shoulders, easing her down off her knees. “Dryu is dangerous, Sol. Even with their wings clipped and magicless, the dragons are a force to be reckoned with. Those scars down Amael’s neck? How do you think he got them?”
“I don’t care,” Sol argued. “Let their dragons come for me. You cannot go on your own.”
“It’s too dangerous—”
“I don’t care,” she repeated. Sol could not believe his gull, his desire to do something so reckless. “If it’s too dangerous for me, it’s too dangerous for you.”
His playful smirk was a beautiful, maddening thing that Sol had grown fond of these past weeks. “Careful, Sol, or I might start to think you actually like me.”
Sol sputtered, a thousand words on the tip of her tongue as her cheeks heated with a blush, and said, “If you die, who will take me to Nedros?”
The Captain sobered, his smile cleared away and replaced by such painful sorrow. “If that’s your only concern,” he said, his voice unusually quiet. “I’ll make Riel swear to take you there. If anything were to happen to me, this ship belongs to her.”
Wrong—that look on his face was wrong. Sol could not bear the sight of his downturned eyes or the frown now pulling at his mouth. His shoulders caved in around him, a shroud of defeat from a blow Sol had not meant to deal him.
“Fynn, I didn’t mean—”
Amael did not bother to knock as he crashed through the cabin door, panting and bracing his hands on his knees. His face was ashen, and Fynn was on his feet before the boatswain could speak. “What happened?”
“Arden,” Amael wheezed. “She’s come down with a fever.”
Sol’s stomach twisted at his words. “Is that something Luca’s Magic can heal?”
As if he’d only just noticed her, Amael eyed her warily. “No,” he said. “Luca can only heal physical ailments, not an illness, and nothing he’s given her has managed to break her fever.”
“What does he need?” Fynn asked. “We’re closer to the Jadoan coastline than we are the islands. We’ll stop in Arrowbrook.”
“He’s written a list,” Amael told him. “Arden needs medicine, not herbs.”
Fynn rubbed at the tension in his jaw. “Tell Gracia to steer us southeast. Will Arden last through the night? We won’t arrive until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.”
Amael’s face was grim. “Luca doesn’t seem hopeful.”
The Captain’s eyes fluttered as a wind tore through his cabin. “Tell Gracia to steer us southeast,” he said again. The opposite direction of Nedros. “I’ll get us to Jadoa by morning.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FYNN
Exhaustion pulled at every part of him as he sagged against the helm, his body near dead-weight from exertion. Fynn could not remember the last time he’d put such a strain on his Magic. Amael and Riel had held him between them for hours, his wind filling the ship’s sails despite having nothing left inside of him. But he had to do this for Arden. He had to push himself to every limit.
His friend would die if he didn’t.
A quiet, intentional cough drew the Captain’s attention. Fynn lifted himself off the helm to find Gracia shuffling behind him. “I can steer,” she said softly. “Arrowbrook’s port isn’t difficult to navigate. I’ve done it before.”
The bustling port of Arrowbrook lay sprawled across the horizon. If Fynn’s Magic could hold out for only a while longer, they’d reach the quay within the hour. Without it, it’d take two, but they did not have that time to waste.
But if Gracia steered the ship, as she had indeed navigated these waters in the past, Fynn could take a few moments to rest. He would need his strength if he was to venture into the port and find what Luca needed.
“All right,” he agreed. Fynn stepped away from the helm and ushered Gracia behind the wheel. “Straight ahead. If you need my help—”
“I’ll call for you.” Gracia promised. “Sit down and rest. You’ve done enough.”
No—never enough. There was always more he could do. But Fynn was of no use to Arden or his crew if he could hardly stay upright on his feet.
Without another word to his helmswoman, Fynn staggered down the stairwell and stumbled onto the main deck. He was not blind to the worried eyes of his crew, nor deaf to their wary whispers. How long would his Magic hold out? Haven’t you heard that people go insane if they push their Magic to its limits?
He certainly felt his sanity slipping away from him, but not from the use of his Magic.
Fynn did not bother closing his cabin door as he collapsed amongst the furs on his bed. He buried his face into a pillow and longed for the sleep that beckoned him, but he couldn’t sleep—not now. Not when his Magic was still needed. He could fill the ship’s sails from here, however difficult and strenuous it might be, though his winds were hardly a breeze now.
Just as he’d begun to drift off, his mind wandering into a lucid dream of mountainous peaks and a frozen courtyard, a quiet knock ricocheted through the Captain’s skull. He jolted awake, an icy blast of wind whipping through the cabin and scattering the papers on his desk.
He rolled onto his side and groaned, squinting against the sunlight that filtered in through the open door. It took a moment too long for his eyes to focus on the silhouette tucked beneath the threshold, Sol’s bottom lip caught between her teeth as she stared at him.
“What do you want?” Fynn complained. Sol flinched back into the light. “We’ll be arriving in Arrowbrook within the hour.”
Sol fiddled with her braid and twirled it around her finger. Nervous, Fynn realized. The Princess of Sonamire was nervous. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right. Riel and the others seemed worried, and I—”
“I’m fine.” Fynn buried his face into his pillow again. “I’m not dead yet, don’t worry.”
The sigh that escaped from her was a breath of regret that stirred something deep in Fynn’s chest. “What I said earlier,” Sol began. “I didn’t mean it. Nedros is—your life is far more important than your promise to me. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
Fynn tilted his head and looked at her with one open, half-lidded eye. “I believe you,” he said. “That you didn’t mean it.”
And he did. Sol’s flustered speech and blushing cheeks had told him enough about her intentions. But that didn’t make it sting any less.
“I’d like to come with you,” Sol said. Fynn quirked an eyebrow. “To the port.”
Despite the ache in his bones and his yearning for undisturbed rest, Fynn propped himself up onto his elbows. “Arrowbrook is different than Valestorm,” he told her. “It’s a trading port, and the people you’ll encounter are conniving bastards that’ll con you into your grave if you’re not careful.”