Thick, leather-bound books, some written in languages that Fynn could not read, were stacked from floor to ceiling inside a small, quaint stone building. He peered through the stained-glass windows, the colorful mural of Ealdyr cracked across his cheek as if someone had taken a rock to it. Interest piqued—the Captain enjoyed a good book—Fynn wandered inside, the sign on the door reading Ancient Tomes of the Emerald.
It was cramped and dusty, but the smell of old books was nearly as intoxicating as the wine he’d consumed the night before. Fynn plucked a few from their stacks, leafed through the deckle-edged paper, and slowly built a pile of the ones he liked until he could not carry any more.
There was hardly any room on the bowing shelves in his cabin, but reading brought him the same peace as sharpening the blades of his swords. It kept his mind busy, his hands, and it silenced the wind inside of him. Even Magic could appreciate beautiful prose.
A flash of red caught the Captain’s eye, and suddenly that peace was ripped away from him.
He turned to find Sol entering the little shop, her fingers tracing over the spines of colorful books. Amael was nowhere to be found, and there was a part of Fynn who wanted to kill him for having left the Princess alone. But Sol was not a child, and Amael didn’t know who she was, that there was a bounty on her head and hunters who’d been paid to take her home.
Fynn debated leaving her alone—she was smiling now, and she had not been this morning—but the panic coiling in his stomach took hold; he knew there were bounty hunters looking for her, and he would not let them have Sol.
Returning several of the books he’d tucked into the bend of his arm, Fynn kept only three from his pile. He sauntered to the Princess of Sonamire. “Those books are written in the Holy Tongue,” he told her. “The language of the Gods. There are very few people who can read them.”
Sol jumped at his voice, her hand splayed across her chest as if to contain the heart within. “You scared me.”
He flashed her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Where’s Amael?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. Sol picked up a book and flipped through the pages. “Last I saw him, he was trying to barter with some man for a knife he wanted. He said it was…dematus?”
“Damascus,” Fynn corrected. “It’s a type of steel.”
“Oh.”
Sol’s hazel eyes roved over the pages of the book, her lips moving as if murmuring the words beneath her breath. Fynn frowned at her, his head tilting curiously to one side. “You can read the Holy Tongue?”
“Yes,” Sol said absently. “Learning it was part of my lessons.”
“That’s quite the education for a simple girl from Valestorm.”
She stilled, did not appear to breathe, and then she snapped the book shut and put it back. “My father wanted better for me, I suppose.”
A knowing smile pulled at the corners of Fynn’s mouth, but he did not press the subject. Sol moved to a different stack of books, ones written in the Irican language and that anyone could read.
“Do you like to read?” Fynn asked.
Sol lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “Sometimes.”
“I have plenty of books in my cabin,” he told her. “You’re welcome to them.”
She paused again, as if she were contemplating his offer. “Thank you.”
Fynn nodded, silently following Sol through the shop. The tomes were covered in dust, layers upon layers that Sol swept away from the spines. She was careful as she turned their pages. Some of them were ripped, some of them hanging loose from the leather bindings. She muttered beneath her breath about what a shame it was to keep books in such a condition, that they ought to be fixed and rebound and kept somewhere safe from the elements.
The Princess did not purchase any books, but she waited patiently as Fynn paid for the newest additions to his collection. “I’m surprised you’ve only bought books today,” Sol mused, stepping into the Arrowbrook heat. She held open the door for Fynn. “Unless, of course, you’ve already taken a horde of fancy rocks back to your room for safekeeping.”
Fynn snorted as the shop door swung shut behind him. “No stones for me,” he told her. “I haven’t found any that I like.”
“Ah.”
Sol was already moving for the next shop, a small stand whose vendor was selling an assortment of handmade jewelry and trinkets. They were made from seashells, Fynn realized, and Sol’s eyes had instantly brightened at the sight of them.
He watched as she rifled through the shells and sought out the pieces she liked.
“Don’t you collect shells?”
“I used to,” Sol said. “But it seems silly now. I have no need for them.”
She lifted a cream-colored bracelet from the counter. Sol turned it between her fingers, studying each individual shell threaded through with copper wire. They were puka shells, ones that were shining with an iridescent lacquer that beautifully captured the sunlight.
“I don’t think it’s silly,” Fynn said, reaching into his pocket and tracing his thumb over a coin. “Not if it brings you joy.”
The Princess stilled, perhaps recalling the words she’d once spoken to him in the aftermath of the bounty hunters’ attack. Sol gingerly returned the bracelet to the counter. “Isn’t that why you keep so may crystals?” she asked. “Because they bring you joy?”
“Yes. Otherwise they’re just decorative rocks.”
Sol laughed, brushing her fingers over the polished shells. “Well said.”
It was her laughter, a sound far lovelier than the tolling bells of a temple, that garnered the attention of the brutes stealing jewelry across the street. Their rugged faces twisted with feral delight as one procured a crumpled sheet of parchment. He studied it, the image Fynn knew must be painted there. The bounty hunters looked at him and grinned.
He stilled, robbed of his breath without the use of any Magic.
Sol must have taken his silence as something more than speechless. “What is it?” she asked, lifting her head to finally meet the Captain’s eyes. She blanched at whatever she found there. “Your face,” she whispered. “I saw you embarrassed this morning, but I’ve never seen you nervous. You’re nervous.”
Fynn took her hand and squeezed. “Do you trust me?”
She did not hesitate to dip her chin and breathe, “Yes.”
“Then run,” he said. “And don’t you dare look back.”
The bounty hunters were on their heels the moment they were sprinting over the flagstones.
CHAPTER TWENTY
SOL
The Captain clutched her hand as if their lives depended on something more than Sol’s ability to keep herself moving. His fingers were locked in an iron-tight grip around her wrist, and Sol wondered if Fynn could feel it. If the scarred, rippling skin pressing into the pads of his fingers was as repulsive to Fynn as it was to her.
But now was not the time to dwell on something so trivial, not when she knew that Fynn would never admit to such things, and not when their lives truly did depend on her ability to keep up with him. Fynn pulled her alongside him and did not dare let her slow, did not dare give her feet the time to falter against the cobblestones.