Arden could not tell him that she cursed this port to the Gods, that she wished Valestorm would burn to the ground and become nothing more than a smoldering pile of rubble. She could not convey her hatred, her disgust for this port and the people who called it home.
She had no tongue to speak with.
But Fynn could read the ire in Arden’s eyes, the absolute fury that burned there like living flames the color of molten earth. He had rescued her from Valestorm six months ago.
Fynn held his breath.
The port was far more putrid than he remembered. Fish bobbed in the water, their rotting corpses exuding a stench that brought tears to the Captain’s eyes; there was nothing worse than the smell of dead fish left to rot in gritty saltwater.
He could not breathe here—did not want to breathe here. Perhaps he would need his Magic after all, if only to purify the air.
But the people who lived in this port, who made their living selling illegal goods in the black market, did not seem to mind the smell. They didn’t seem to mind the blood-stained cobblestones either.
Merchants and their potential buyers did not pay him any mind, though Fynn gave them no reason to. He offered no indication he was here on business of his own, a mindless visitor wandering aimlessly about. He kept his head down, and he did not lift his eyes from the toes of his battered boots. He’d need to scrub them clean later.
Abel Lamerre had not changed in the six months since Fynn had saw him last. His small stand was situated in the darkest alley of the market, but it was perhaps the cleanest place in all of Valestorm. Abel took pride in what little livelihood this port offered him; his dedication to his craft, his passion for trading long-lost treasures from across the sea and continent, were what made Fynn like him.
Even if he did not trust him.
Abel was sweeping the polished cobblestones in front of his stand when he spotted Fynn sauntering down the alley. His dark eyes brightened as the Captain raised his hand in greeting. “Hello, Abel.”
“Ezra!” the old man said. He discarded his broom behind the counter.
Fynn had learned not to flinch at the name, even if it was a knife to his heart.
“It’s been so long, my boy.” Abel wiped his hands on the brown fabric of his tunic. “I was beginning to worry that Thymis had sunk your ship in her rage.”
Thymis, the Irican goddess of the sea, had cursed Valestorm long before Fynn was born. She had poisoned its festering waters, had plundered the land of life and soul and left its people to rot. Fynn was temping her wrath just by being here, and both he and Amael would later pay her tribute and beg for safe voyage through her waters.
“Thymis has been kind to me,” Fynn reassured Abel. “I’ve been busy.”
“Of course.” Abel slid behind the counter. “I assume you’ve come for your usual inspection?”
Fynn smiled. “You know me well.”
Abel procured a small, plain wooden box from behind his stand and placed it on the counter. “I bartered for some of these with you in mind.” He withdrew a stone from inside the box. “You’ve always seemed to favor amethyst.”
“I certainly do.” Fynn studied the large stone resting in Abel’s open palm. His wrinkled hands were calloused and shaking with age, and the twining veins beneath his leathery skin were nearly as purple as the crystal. “May I?”
Abel handed him the stone and rifled through his box for more.
Fynn turned it between his fingers. The amethyst glistened in the sunlight, and Fynn traced his thumb over the crystal’s jagged surface. It was heavy in his grasp, a larger chunk of stone than what Abel usually bartered for. Fynn placed it on the counter.
He had the perfect place for it in his cabin.
“What other treasures do you have for me?” Fynn rose onto his toes to peer into the box, his interest piqued. “What’s that?”
“Oh!” Abel retrieved the small, smooth stone that he’d tucked into the corner of the box. “I thought it might strike your fancy.”
He held it out to Fynn.
The iridescent stone caught and fractured the muted light filtering through the alley. Fynn took it gingerly between his fingers, his thumbnail scratching gently at the stone’s perfectly rounded edge. “It’s beautiful.”
“A lovely opal,” Abel agreed.
Wrong.
Fynn studied the stone for several moments before placing it on the counter. He plucked a few more sparkling gems from the box and set them aside. “How much?”
Abel’s eyes shone like obsidian as he gave Fynn his asking price.
The Captain retrieved his pouch of gold and set it on the counter. “Keep the extra,” he said. “For thinking of me during my time away.”
Abel pried open the bag with unsteady fingers and gasped. “This is too much, Ezra. Those stones aren’t worth a single piece of gold.”
Fynn shrugged with indifference. “Buy something nice for Miriam.”
Abel’s lower lip quivered as he touched a hand to his heart. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, old friend.” Fynn drummed his fingers against the counter. “Would you mind wrapping these up for me? I’d hate for any of them to break.”
Abel smiled as he began to wrap the fragile stones with discarded paper from the port. Fynn did not watch him work, did not want to think about where that paper had come from or what it may have been used for.
His eyes lingered instead on the mistaken opal that was not an opal at all. Abel did not know what he possessed, what he had found or traded or bartered for. But Fynn did.
He knew a dragon scale when he saw one—when he felt one.
“Here you are.” Abel slid a canvas sack across the counter, the seams bulging from the weight of the stones inside. “I take it your crew is waiting for you?”
Fynn nodded. “They are indeed.”
Abel stretched his arm over the counter. “I won’t keep you, then. But do come back and see me soon. Should you stay for more than a few moments, maybe I can send for Miriam. My wife simply adores you.”
The Captain took Abel’s hand. “I’ll try.” His knobby fingers were warm as Fynn gripped them. “Stay safe and take care of yourself.”
“I will. Good tides, Ezra.”
Fynn emerged from the alley the same way he’d gone in, with his head down and eyes on the toes of his boots. Fynn kept the bag of crystals tucked close to his chest, praying that no one inquired about the contents of his hoard. He did not feel like ripping the air from someone’s lungs should they decide that the stones were worth more than his life.
CHAPTER THREE
SOL
Valestorm was worse than she’d expected.
Silas had warned her that she would not find a friendly face amongst the merchants. He’d warned her about the blood-smeared cobblestones and the rotting fish in the quay. And the smell. He’d warned her about that, too, and yet she had not been prepared.
She could not believe Quint had left her here.
After a night of traveling to the port, Sol was meant to be gone by day’s end, before the worst of Valestorm came crawling into the streets to hunt for their evening entertainment. Should the Princess linger in the market, Silas had given her one final warning: she would become their muse, and she would not like what they would do to her.