Fynn, the Captain who had saved her, who offered his ship as a home to those in need, who had shown her nothing but kindness since the moment they’d met in Valestorm, was a Grayclaw.
“How?”
He did not need clarification. “Caidem is my father,” he told her, confirming what she’d pieced together on her own. “But my mother, she was a priestess in his personal temple. It was a brief affair, but I was the product of it. And when the Queen discovered that Caidem had been unfaithful, she ordered that he have my mother killed. He obeyed. I was five.
“You asked me before why I use the name Ezra for business affairs, and I told you that it was just an alias. That was a lie. Ezra is the name my mother gave me. But Caidem didn’t like it, said it was too Jadoan for a son of Dyn. He changed my name to Fynnian after I was brought into his care. It was the name he’d wanted to give my sister if she’d been a boy.”
Sol’s insides were conflicted, part of her aching for this man she’d grown so fond of, and part of her disbelieving of such a tale. “Cardinal?”
“Cardinal was Vasil’s last name, and Riel’s. Neither of them minded that I use it.”
“Hale?” Sol inquired. “You gave the name Ezra Hale in Arrowbrook.”
“Hale was my mother’s family name.”
Sol pulled her knees into her chest. “The war,” she said. “Tell me about the war.”
Fynn blanched. “Sol—”
“You were the one who nearly killed my brother,” she accused. “You said you saw him on the battlefield, but that was a lie, wasn’t it? You didn’t just see him, you fought him.”
Fynn nodded nervously. “He was meant to fight Thane, but your brother was a formidable foe, even as a child. Caidem was too afraid to send Thane off to fight him, was too afraid that Silas would kill his only legitimate heir, so he sent his bastard to do the job.
“I could have killed Silas, had I wanted to. I had the training, and I had my Magic. I smothered his flames every time he struck at me. But then I ran him through with my sword, and I—” Fynn drew a ragged breath, as if he himself had been stabbed clean-through with a blade. “Silas fell, and his flames went out, and I could have done it. I was poised to deal him his killing blow, poised to finally win Caidem’s favor.”
Sol blinked away the tears from her eyes. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because he was a child,” Fynn said. “I was a child. And we were fighting a war that wasn’t ours to fight, and killing him didn’t seem fair.”
“Silas told me that the boy who wounded him ran away.” Sol did not realize she’d dug her nails into the top of Fynn’s hand until he gently shook his own free. He flexed his fingers and winced. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Fynn said, then continued, “I couldn’t kill your brother, but I knew that mine would kill me for having failed him. I ran to avoid a shameful death.”
Sol picked at her cuticles. “Where did you go?”
“South,” he said. “I ran until I couldn’t anymore. Until there was no more blood and the shore was gone. Vasil found me in Valestorm a few weeks after the final battle between Sonamire and Dyn. I didn’t know where I was, or where I was going, but I was half dead and starving when Vasil offered me a home on his ship.”
Fynn nudged Sol’s hands apart before she could rip the skin from her nailbeds.
“Amael said that your father told everyone you were dead.”
The Captain scoffed. “I’m sure he wishes I was,” he said. “But both he and Thane know that I survived that battle. They know I’m out here, somewhere, and I’m sure I cross their minds every once in a while. I’m sure Thane misses his personal punching bag.”
Her temper flared, the kind of rage that when someone provoked Silas into such a fury, armies knew well to run. But perhaps that had always been the Dragon’s Heart. “All those stories,” Sol recalled. “All those stories you told me about your brother having beaten you as a child…”
Fynn nodded. “He liked an audience,” he confided quietly. “Sometimes, when he was bored, he’d beat me in the palace’s central courtyard. Half the town would stand there and watch from between the pillars.”
“And Caidem let him do this?”
“Caidem encouraged it.”
The ship rocked beneath them, and Fynn arrowed forward as if launched by an invisible bowstring. He held Sol’s hands between them. “Calm down,” he urged. “It was a long time ago.”
“For you,” Sol snapped. “It’s new to me.”
He brushed his thumb along her knuckles, traced circles—no, runes—against her skin. “I know,” he acknowledged. “But I’m not there anymore, and there’s nothing you can do—nothing I need you to do—to protect me.”
“I could sink the palace,” Sol thundered anyway. “I could flood the entire kingdom.”
And she could. With or without the Dragon’s Heart, Sol Rosebone could drown them on dry land.
But Fynn shook his head. “I don’t want that,” he told her evenly. “Caidem and Thane are the tyrants, not the people. Not my sister. Theodosia was never like the rest of them.”
Warm air filled her lungs, soft and soothing and calm. Sol breathed in deep until the Magic stilled beneath her skin, until her water trickled back into the Emerald. She gripped Fynn’s hands and pulled him close, close until she could wrap her arms around his torso and embrace him just as tight. Fynn sank into Sol’s chest and buried his face into her hair.
“I don’t hate you,” she said. “Never you.”
He chuckled, the sound reverberating through Sol’s bones. “Just my family.”
“I don’t suppose you’re any fonder of mine.”
“No,” he agreed. “I don’t suppose I am.”
Sol did not move, did not dare let him go as she asked, “What now?”
Fynn raked through her hair, fiddling absently with the curls at the nape of her neck. “What do you mean?”
“They’re going to war because of me,” Sol said. “Our brothers.”
She felt him flinch. “It isn’t because of you,” Fynn said. “It’s because Sonamire and Dyn have always been at odds, and there’s not been a monarch yet to break the cycle.”
“Silas would break it,” Sol considered. “Perhaps he’s skilled with a sword, but he doesn’t like war. He doesn’t like fighting.”
“Unfortunately, Thane doesn’t share that same sentiment.” Fynn pressed a lingering kiss to Sol’s temple as he pulled away from her. “But Silas is strong. If Sonamire and Dyn are indeed at war, I have no doubt he’ll be fine.” His smile, though strained, was smug. “He couldn’t have defeated me, of course, but Thane is shit with a weapon. He relied on his Magic to win a fight.”
Sol frowned. “He’s a Wielder?”
“Earth, like Riel.”
She hummed her acknowledgement. “It’s a shame,” she said. “That Thane will someday be King.”
Fynn snorted, twisting onto his side and flopping against the mattress, mindful of Draven lounging at the foot of the bed. He tucked his arms beneath his head. “Don’t go there,” he warned. “Riel’s already pondered what it would be like if I were to challenge Thane for the throne.”