She did not need to.
Bounty hunters screamed from the deck, the rigging, and the crows nest; they begged Riel to stop, to let them live, to show mercy. Their ship teetered on its stern, several inches of the groaning wood still submerged beneath the water. But Riel had risen several columns of near-black stone to pierce through the sides of the hull, holding the ship stagnant. Unless they had an Earth-Wielder to repair the damaged planks, they would not leave this plateau, not before the Refuge was far adrift at sea. They had never seen it coming.
Riel staggered onto her feet, and Fynn gripped her arms to keep her steady. “Good work,” he praised, but it was not without remorse.
Fish of every color were still floundering atop the stone, gasping as air filled their gills. A stretch of briny coral was crushed beneath the weight of the ship, and Riel’s face was pinched and marred with a barely subdued fury. “Don’t ask me to do that again.”
“I won’t,” Fynn said.
But he would. He’d do anything to save his crew. To save Riel.
She shoved him away from the helm, and Fynn loosened his hold on the wind. Arden had snuffed out her flames the moment the plateau had risen, and the fog was beginning to clear. They needed to go now, to escape before another ship could corner them.
“Where to?” Riel thundered quietly, gripping the helm with shaking hands.
Fynn swallowed audibly as guilt coiled in his stomach. “West,” he answered. “Like we’d planned. Towards Dryu.”
Riel turned the wheel, wrenching them around until the bounty hunters’ ship was behind them. Fynn summoned a final wind to carry them out to sea.
“What about the girl?”
For a single moment, he’d forgotten her, the Princess aboard his ship. Fynn peaked over the quarterdeck railing. The Rosebone was still huddled near the mizzenmast, clinging to her direwolf as if he would somehow save her. But her shoulders were no longer trembling, and now she sat stiff as a barrel, her braided hair the color of wine as it began to spill from beneath her hood.
The Captain bit his lip. “I’ll talk to her.”
Riel snorted, despite herself. “I’m sure you will.”
Fynn slapped the back of his hand against her shoulder. “Stay the course until Gracia returns topside. Afterwards, I want you to rest.”
For once, she did not argue, her Magic having drained the fight right out of her. Riel saluted him with two fingers to her temple. “Aye, Captain. Go converse with your newest damsel.”
He started down the quarterdeck stairs, counting his crew as he went. Ten, eleven, twelve… The rest were hiding below deck, and the Rosebone made twenty aboard his ship. Gods, another damned mouth to feed. They barely had enough food to go around, and now he had to feed a Princess and her pet.
As if she sensed his approach, his footsteps heavy to avoid startling her, she lifted her head from the direwolf’s massive shoulder. Her ashen cheeks were flushed from the cold and stained with the tracks of fresh tears, and she cowered as Fynn knelt in front of her.
“Are you all right?” he asked, offering what he hoped was a kind smile. “You’re safe now.”
She opened her mouth, worked her jaw as if trying to find her speech. “I’m fine.”
The tremor in her voice said otherwise, but Fynn was not one to press.
“What were you doing in that port?”
The girl blanched. “I…”
She had not been trained in what to say, had not been prepared for this moment, and it was obvious. Fynn raised an eyebrow and waited.
“I live there.”
“Amongst the merchants and brothels and slave traders?”
It was a lie if he’d ever heard one. A girl like her would have been snatched off the streets a long time ago, her hair alone marking her as something desirable. She was pretty, in an innocent, doe-like sort of way, her hazel eyes wide and lashes thick with saltwater. Her nose was thin, her cheekbones high and rounded, and her jaw was soft and pointed. Men in Valestorm would have killed for her. One had died trying to have her.
“Yes.”
Fynn’s mouth twitched. “All right,” he conceded. “I won’t make you tell me the truth, but I did just save your life and risk my ship in the process. You owe me your name, at the very least.”
It was more curiosity than a dire need to know. He’d call her whatever she wanted.
She blinked at him. “It’s…”
Someone had told her to lie, to create a façade and stick to it. But she hadn’t taken the time to think it through. Not like Fynn had when he’d first joined this crew.
“My name is Fynn,” he offered calmly.
He dragged his fingers through his hair, his leather band lost to the wind. It was tangled with sweat and saltwater, and he tucked the loose strands behind his ears. The Princess watched him intently, her eyes tracking every movement.
At least she was observant.
“Your wolf’s name is Draven, right? That’s a Jadoan name.”
“Yes,” she said quickly, as if she had not known. “What’s your ship called?”
“The Refuge,” Fynn provided, shifting his weight from his haunches to sit cross-legged in front of her. “It’s fitting, don’t you think? All of us here needed asylum.”
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Are you a slave trader?”
Fynn tilted his head to one side, trying not to wince at the bite in her implied accusation. “So many questions from the stranger aboard my ship. I feel like I’m being interrogated in my own home.”
Despite the frigid air, warmth crept into her cheeks, turning her skin an even rosier pink. “I’m sorry.”
Fynn chuckled. “Tell me your name,” he said. “And I’ll answer any questions you have for me. But no, I’m certainly not a slave trader. Everyone aboard this ship is here at their own discretion—because they want to be.”
She met Fynn’s gaze and stared at him, deciding for herself whether or not she believed him. He dropped his chin into his palm, waiting patiently while she studied him. She was not the first to consider him with such confliction, though she did not try to hide that she was conflicted. Fynn saw it drawn across her face, in the way she chewed her bottom lip.
“If you can’t decide on a name to give me,” he said after a moment. “I can always make one up for you.”
She startled. “Excuse me?”
He tugged on her tangled braid. “I could always call you Red?” Fynn suggested, chuckling as she batted his hand away. “Lily is pretty, so is Talia. Come on, love, what’ll it be? We haven’t got all day.”
The Princess raised her chin, gathering some sudden confidence drudged up from deep inside of her, and pulled back the hood of her cloak. Her hair flashed copper in the sunlight. “My name is Sol,” she announced, and he knew it was not a lie. This girl was called Sol Rosebone; Sol, like the ancients called the Sun. “And I need you to take me to Nedros.”
CHAPTER FIVE
FYNN
“What in the name of all the Gods is a Rosebone doing on my ship, Fynnian?”
Fynn groaned as he stepped into his cabin. He collapsed onto the edge of his bed, exhaustion pulling at his limbs like it were a tangible thing with fingers to grip and prod at him. “Our ship,” he corrected. “And I’ve asked you not to call me that.”