Sol’s nostrils flared. “I’m sorry,” she spat at him, and although her temper was getting the better of her, she meant it. “But when my brother sent me away, promising to keep my Magic a secret was all that gave him peace. He was worried sick I’d be killed for it.”
Amael stepped back and blinked at her, the malice gone from his eyes. “Your brother is who sent you away?”
She gave pause, her Magic sputtering out as if to abandon her to the question. Sol cursed it, cursed herself and her loose lips for her foolishness. “No,” she said, fiddling with the hair that fell and curled over her shoulders. “It’s more complicated than that. You wouldn’t understand.”
“What else are you hiding from us?” Amael inquired. His tone was more thoughtful than demanding, as if she were a puzzle he could not quite figure out. “If you’re in some kind of trouble, Sol, we could help you. To Fynn, you’re already one of us. He would sail to the edges of this Earth to—”
“Stop,” Sol begged. She folded her arms around herself. “Beyond taking me to Nedros, there’s nothing you can do to help me.”
“Why Nedros?”
“It’s the only place I’ll be safe.”
Amael’s brow creased with concern. “Why? If you’d just tell me, I could—”
“I can’t!” Sol cried. Water trickled through her veins at the outburst, a flood building up inside her that she did not dare let loose. If she did, a torrent would wash away this port. “If I were to tell you why I left, who I am, you’d be obligated to send me home. You would—”
“That’s your fear?” he asked. She did not miss the hurt that flashed across Amael’s face, the second betrayal she had dealt him. “That I would send you back to Valestorm?”
“No,” Sol whimpered. “That you would send me to Dyn where I belong.”
The boatswain sucked in a breath. He dropped his arms to his sides, his hands within casual reach of the knives strapped to his belt. “So it is true,” he murmured. “The bounty hunters who attacked our ship and chased us from the port, they weren’t looking for Fynn. They were looking for you.”
Sol helplessly lifted her shoulders. “I don’t know,” she told him. “If they were looking for me, I didn’t think they’d find me so soon.”
“You’re just a girl,” Amael said. Sol did not let herself take offense. “Who would send the hunters after you? What have you done?”
“Nothing,” Sol insisted. “I’ve done nothing.”
Amael dragged a hand across his face, pinching at the bridge of his nose in frustration. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to tell Fynn.”
“No!” she implored. “Amael, please. You don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand!” he demanded. “You feared being a threat to this crew, and now you are one. Those bounty hunters nearly killed Arden, and if you’re not going to tell me why, then I—”
“Because I’m betrothed to Thane Grayclaw!”
The words slipped out of her before she could stop them, before she could turn on her heels and disappear into the darkness of this port. She could find another Captain, one more inclined to take her money, to sail her across the sea and leave her there. But now she’d given Amael the one piece of his puzzle that pegged her as a price tag to anyone looking to make a profit.
But Amael did not look at her as a prize, did not bind her with rope and haul her in front of Fynn and make her tell him who she was.
Amael’s hands fell away from the sharpened blades at his belt. “Thane Grayclaw,” he repeated slowly, as if the name were acid on his tongue. “As in the Crown Prince of Dyn?”
Tears welled in Sol’s eyes. “My father meant to use me as a pawn,” Sol explained. There was no going back now, no reason to hide the truth from him. Amael would decide what to do with her with or without an explanation. “Our marriage was to be the bridge between our kingdoms, but I was never informed of the betrothal, not until the night before Fynn found me in Valestorm. My brother ordered me away in hopes of sparing me from Thane’s cruelty.”
Amael stared at her, his wariness replaced by something far worse. He pitied her.
“Who are you?” he questioned softly, as if the bedrock of this port would hear him. As if the mountain itself would spill Sol’s secrets to anyone nearby who might be listening.
She sighed. There was no point in hiding her name. One way or another, Amael would figure it out, either on his own after putting together the pieces, or because Sol told him the truth. Who else was Thane Grayclaw meant to marry if not the daughter of a King?
She said the words that would damn her. The ones that would send him scrambling back into the tavern to tell Fynn. “My name is Sol Rosebone,” she confessed. “And I am the Princess of Sonamire.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
FYNN
The sunlight filtering in through the open bedroom window was a curse, one meant to blind him as he rolled onto his stomach and buried his face into a soft, feathery pillow that vaguely smelt of cinnamon. His head was pounding, like someone had taken a mallet to his skull and was repeatedly beating him in the temple. A visceral groan escaped from him.
How much had he had to drink last night?
Jorel had kept the wine flowing for hours, filling Fynn’s glass the moment he’d drained it to the dregs. Red wine, honeyed wine, and spiced wine, mead that burned Fynn’s throat and beer that warmed his currently churning stomach. They had racked up a bar tab greater than the coffers in Fynn’s trove, and apart from that, the Captain had paid Jorel one hell of a tip for his services.
He groaned again, also aware that Jorel had left him to wake alone.
Alone in bed, at least, because Amael was sprawled in an empty chair across the room, counting a pouch of gold coins. His mouth twitched with a smile as Fynn pried open one eye to look at him. “He left about an hour ago,” the boatswain told him. The humor in his tone had Fynn stuffing his head beneath his pillow, the bedsheets reeking of that cinnamon-scented cologne that Jorel sometimes liked to bathe in. “He was careful not to wake you, but he asked me to thank you for a fun night.”
“Bullshit.”
“He asked me to thank you for the—”
“Keep talking, Amael, and I’ll drown you in the Emerald.”
Amael snorted as he rose from his chair, untangling his long limbs and stretching as if he’d been sitting there for an even longer while. “Jorel left you a kettle of tea steeping on the counter. It was nice and hot when he left, but since I couldn’t return to this room until you’d both fallen asleep, I didn’t think you’d mind if I helped myself.”
Fynn pulled back the pillow and glared at him, his eyes still crusted with sleep. “Is there any of it left?”
“None. It was delicious.”
A snarl ripped between his teeth. “You ass,” he said. “You could have left me at least a cup.”
The boatswain laughed as he crossed the room. He brandished a white mug from the counter adjacent to their beds, then filled it with tea from the still-steeping kettle. A small fire was lit beneath the metal pot to keep it warm. “Jorel said you’d be in a foul mood when you woke. That you’d drank enough wine to render an entire army useless. I didn’t want to deal with you, so I only took a few sips.”