Dynami’s Wrath

by St Clare, Kelly

  He peered at her. “Perhaps not. Are you hungry? The food looks ready.”

  Blatant deflection. Ebba scoffed, playing along. “I’m always hungry, ye dolt.”

  She stood and tried to be circumspect about pulling down the bottom hem of her dress. Damn thing rode up when she sat down. Slops didn’t do that.

  Despite the burned dish, Peg-leg really had outdone himself. He’d made all of Ebba’s favorite dishes: fish with white sauce, fruit salad minus mangoes—Ebba went off them big time after her stint on Malice—battered calamari rings, shrimp salad, and potatoes he’d sliced thinly and laid flat on a grate to crisp. She inhaled the scents in the air and groaned. Food. And no coconut in sight. If she had to eat one more bloody coconut dish, she’d probably turn into one. Couldn’t be good to eat so much of one thing.

  She piled up a plate and returned to her seat. Marigold immediately sat down on her right, and the eldest of her sons took the place on the left. Sink her, Ebba had hoped to get through the night without having to talk to the mainlanders. Marigold wasn’t all bad, really; Ebba liked Barrels’ sister. Even so, she couldn’t wait for Zol to just be pirates again.

  “Happy birthday, my dear,” Marigold said warmly.

  Her peppered hair, so similar to Barrels’, was neatly curled. When they’d left Exosia, Barrels had instructed his sister to bring the things necessary for survival, so naturally she’d packed her hair curlers. The older woman had a mostly white shirt on, tucked into a long skirt she’d brought with her. Gone were the dress hoops that lent volume to her garb and hid her frame; gone were the ruffles and lace and golden jewels. Marigold had taken a length of fabric and wrapped it around her neck, tucking the ends into the V neckline of her shirt to add a splash of dignity to her appearance. The sash looked pretty good, actually.

  “Thank ye, Marigold.” Ebba nodded at her.

  The woman peered around the fire. “That I would one day celebrate a birthday with pirates never crossed my mind.”

  “That I would ever leave Exosia never crossed my mind,” her son muttered on the other side.

  “Would you rather be dead, Connor?” Marigold asked, a hint of steel entering her tone.

  The middle-aged and rail-thin man sighed. “No, Mother.”

  He’d learned not to argue with her. Smarter than he looked.

  “My family and I have a present for you. You’re eighteen now; that’s a big deal on Exosia.” Marigold took Ebba’s half-emptied plate and placed it beside hers on the sandy ground.

  Ebba tracked her plate, still ravenous, and wondered if she should make an issue of it or not.

  Connor whispered low. “Leave it. There’s more food.”

  Aye, her thought exactly.

  Barrels called from the far end of the log, “Did you say presents, sister?” He plonked Pillage and Sally on the ground before standing.

  The sprite pulled herself up to sprawl over the cat’s back as Pillage ambled closer to the fire to lay by the heat.

  “I did, brother.”

  Barrels beamed at Marigold, and Ebba sucked in a full and content breath, knowing how much happier he’d been since reuniting with what remained of his family. Ebba had never thought of her smartest father as a sad or burdened person, but he was noticeably lighter now.

  “I’ll go get ours,” Barrels announced, disappearing into the closest shack.

  Marigold held up a leaf-wrapped parcel.

  Ebba raised her brows at the older woman.

  “We wrap gifts where I come from,” she said in response.

  What a useless thing to do.

  Ebba took the gift and, ignoring the fact that everyone had stopped eating to watch her unwrap the present, she pulled on the loosest leaf. A bracelet sparkled in the middle. She picked it up, inspecting the gold circlet. Two thin bands lay parallel with an undulating wave moving between them, holding the two bands together.

  “Thank ye, Marigold.” Ebba lifted her head and peered around the logs. “And all o’ yer family.”

  The sons and their wives smiled back at her, their ten younger spawn silent. For once.

  “‘Tis an arm band,” Marigold said. “One I purchased for myself in my wild days but never wore for fear of angering my mother. I saw it in my jewelry box as I was packing to leave. You are exotic enough to pull such a thing off, my dear. The band will suit you far more than it ever suited me.”

  Marigold took her hand and slid the golden circlet up Ebba’s arm until it was tight about the middle of her bicep.

  “Huh,” Ebba said, studying how the gold band contrasted with her brown skin. “I really like it. And the wigglin’ line reminds me o’ the ocean.”

  “It be lookin’ right fierce, little nymph,” Plank said from the opposite side of the pit.

  She thought so as well. Who knew mainlanders had taste?

  Caspian walked to her, his youngest sister Sierra on one side and Princess Anya on the other. He glanced at Sierra when they reached Ebba.

  “Happy birthday.” The princess held out a small glass tube, no larger than the size of Ebba’s thumb.

  Ebba took the corked tube. Inside, different colors of sand had been layered: white, pink, purple, deep blue, and then black.

  “It’s sand from this beach,” Caspian said. “So you will always have a bit of Zol with you on our journey.”

  She dropped her gaze to the gift again, surprisingly touched by the thought behind it.

  “Thank ye,” Ebba said. “Ye dyed the sand di’ferent colors?”

  “Anya’s addition to the gift,” Caspian said, smiling at his eldest sibling.

  The younger princess was a devious, pirate kind of sort, but the eldest was definitely a mainlander. Still . . . though the different colors didn’t seem significant in any way, Ebba appreciated the creativity behind it. “Very pretty. I thank ye.”

  Anya flushed and curtsied—in slops, which ruined the mannerly bob somewhat.

  Her six fathers approached next, broad grins on their faces. An answering one spread across her own face. What in Davy Jones were they so proud of themselves for?

  “For a long time,” Plank began in his ominous and posh storytelling voice. The other five groaned, but he plowed on. “We didn’t know if we’d be around for your eighteenth birthday. Ye know that you’re the best thing that ever happened to us. The best thing.”

  “Aye,” her other fathers muttered.

  “Our gift to ye began as a way for us to never forget a moment,” Plank continued. “We’d get Barrels to jot down the funny things you said and did, and all yer firsts. We kept them in a box in his office over the years, and in the last few weeks, we put them together.”

  He peered across at Stubby, who drew a large book from behind his back.

  Ebba stood, her mouth drying as she neared the thick book. The cream pages were protected by a soft black leather covering that tied closed. Ebba took the book from Stubby’s hands.

  The book was huge. “All of these be memories?” she asked them quietly.

  Undoing the tie, she turned the pages reverently, tracing the elegant swirling letters she knew to be Barrels’ handwriting.

  “Aye, lass.” Locks squeezed her shoulder.

  Peg-leg came up behind her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Grubby flashed her a toothy grin.

  “What does this one say?” she asked Barrels, pointing to a short comment in the middle of a page.

  Barrels craned to see, reading aloud, “Today Ebba ran away just as I’d taken off her diaper to wash her. She climbed the ladder quicker than lightning and proceeded to shite all over the deck—from Stubby.”

  Her fathers chuckled, and Ebba withheld a mortified groan, hearing snickering from some of the others.

  As her father began recounting all the times she’d created a mess on the deck, Ebba continued flicking through the pages in silence. They eventually fell silent again, and a question she should have asked a long time ago rose to her lips.

  “Barrels?” she asked. “C
an ye teach me to read?” Ebba couldn’t not learn when such a treasure had been gifted to her.

  He took her hand in a gentle grip. “It would be my pleasure.”

  There didn’t seem enough words to properly thank them. Ebba lifted her head and glanced around the circle of her fathers.

  “I’ll treasure it for the rest of my days. It means more to me than ye know.” Ebba may’ve lost part of herself when she lost her beads, but she had this book now. Whenever she needed to remember good things, and whenever the memories of Malice weighed her down, she’d turn to this.

  Ebba clasped the book to her chest.

  Stubby passed a dirty handkerchief to a sobbing Locks, surreptitiously wiping a tear from the corner of his own eye.

  “I have sumpin’ for ye,” a voice called from behind.

  She nearly groaned aloud, recognizing Jagger’s cool voice. He’d said there were too many mainlanders here for his liking. Why was he back? And he had something for her? He’d be as likely to gift her a manta ray or dried fish poop as something decent.

  “What?” Ebba asked as she turned. She accompanied the word with a warning look.

  Jagger lingered at the outskirts of the fire, one foot in the light and one in the shadows. In his hand was a woven leaf pouch, secured with yarn. He cast furtive looks at the gathering, who were already quiet from watching the present-giving.

  “Sumpin’,” he answered.

  Oh good, that was exactly what she’d always wanted.

  “What is it?” Ebba asked, wariness stirring her insides.

  The flaxen-haired pirate strode toward her, silver eyes on her face with such determination that Ebba suddenly had the feeling Jagger might be nervous. And that made her extra nervous.

  “What is it?” she asked in a louder voice, eyes searching his.

  He stopped before her and held up the pouch made of woven palm leaves. “An apology,” he grunted. “And a reminder. A rebellion, too, I s’pose.”

  Ebba took the bag tentatively. What did that even mean? “Can’t ye just give a straight answer?”

  “Never.” He winked.

  She studied him, certain that hadn’t been a trick of the twilight and Jagger had genuinely winked. At her. Instead of smirking.

  “Sumpin’ in yer eye, lad?” Locks growled.

  Verity snorted.

  The best course was to pretend none of their conversation was happening.

  She loosened the front flap of the woven pouch and peeked up at Jagger again before opening the gift. He was breathing too fast, his exhales harsh. There were many things she didn’t trust about Jagger, but she’d always trusted that he was in control.

  She didn’t like that he wasn’t. Not one bit.

  Butterflies erupted in her gut as she reached into the bag. Her fingertips encountered smooth wood. A sensation she’d felt many, many times.

  Ebba drew out a string of beads . . .

  . . . That she’d last seen when the crew of Malice—Jagger included—cut them from her hair.

  Four

  An apology. A reminder. A rebellion.

  Ebba perched out on the bowsprit of Felicity in the dark. Things hadn’t gone ‘well’ after Jagger gifted her the beads. She’d stormed away from the fire pit without saying a word to him. Not because she was angry but because she’d been about to cry. Or maybe she’d been about to cry because she was angry at him. Two hours later, with night set in and everyone off to their beds, Ebba still wasn’t sure which was correct.

  . . . Was gifting back her own belongings even allowed as a birthday gift? Cheap bugger.

  The first part of his explanation actually made sense. Jagger was the one to suggest that Pockmark take the beads to break her spirit. Had Jagger scrambled to collect them afterward? Not all of the beads were here; she distinctly recalled a couple disappearing out the ship’s scuppers. All but four were accounted for, though.

  Her beads that she’d never expected to see again.

  “Yeeeoooow!”

  Ebba glanced to the port bulwark where Pillage was watching her. Clearly, the cat didn’t trust her on his ship. “Go away, ye noisy bugger.”

  He hissed at her and maintained his watchful vigil.

  She rolled her eyes, turning away again.

  Jagger had made her angry with the gift, Ebba decided. Partly because she found it incredible that even then, after a month below deck in that dark, tainted room, he’d still possessed the willpower to collect the beads, intending to one day return them to her.

  Was that what he’d meant by the third part? Was collecting the beads his rebellion? To do nice things even while aboard that ship? To fight back against the taint in such a small way. . . . Was that how the silver-eyed pirate had managed to hold on for two years against the taint?

  The second part was giving her the most trouble and was the reason for her still being out here on the bowsprit three hours later. She might’ve thought his gift thoughtful, but if he’d given her the beads back to remind her of her time on Malice, she couldn’t see that as anything other than a cruelty.

  His ‘gift’ was a double-edged sword, as far as she was concerned, like everything else he did. And if she trusted him, she could trust his intentions, but Ebba didn’t. What was Jagger up to?

  “Mistress Pirate?”

  Ebba straightened and then slouched again. “What do ye want, Caspian?”

  “I thought you might want to talk.”

  “Like ye always do?” she snapped. “Maybe I’ll just ask ye about yer day.” Guilt stabbed her immediately. Blasted temper.

  His reply was dry. “Fair enough.”

  Ebba glanced behind, spotting the prince at the base of the bowsprit. She didn’t feel guilty enough to apologize for snapping yet. . . .

  “If you don’t come in, I’ll have to come out,” he informed her. “And I only have one arm.”

  “Ye’re the only one who thinks that changes a thing,” she countered.

  “Yes, but Peg-leg said I should try and use it to garner sympathy and wealth when I can.”

  She snorted. That sounded just like something her father would say. And it was the first time the prince had mentioned his missing arm for weeks. “Oh, all right then. Come out if ye dare.”

  Caspian eyed the tapered and rounded beam jutting out from Felicity’s bow. Lips pressed together, he straddled the bowsprit, shuffling out.

  Ebba’s lips trembled. “Don’t be fallin’, Prince. I’m not inclined-like to get wet in my new dress.”

  His white teeth gleamed in the dark. “And I’m not inclined to fall in. I’m not even sure I can swim now.”

  She turned back around to wait for him to shuffle closer. The inlet was quiet and the full moon out and shining bright overhead. Zol was so peaceful when everyone was asleep.

  A loud splash erupted below.

  Ebba twisted to glance behind. Shite!

  “Caspian,” she called down. His head appeared below, bobbing above the surface, his sole arm flailing to keep him afloat.

  She swung her leg over and pushed off to drop next to him. Warm water flooded around her, over her head, and Ebba immediately kicked for the surface.

  The prince spluttered there, water dripping from his russet hair.

  “Calm yer fish farm, Prince. Lay on yer back,” she said, circling her legs underneath the water to keep her head above the surface.

  He did as she bade, gasping for breath, and slowly relaxed in the position, obviously realizing he wasn’t about to die.

  “I fell off,” he told her.

  She checked her laughter, sensing Caspian was more than a little bitter about that fact. “Aye, I thought it had to be ye, or that a whale managed to reach the inlet.”

  He narrowed his eyes on her face, but then he laughed suddenly, harshly. “I can’t even swim anymore.”

  After the purgium took the prince’s limb, Peg-leg spent a great deal of time teaching Caspian how to live with one arm. It couldn’t be easy, relearning every single thing f
rom the start. “What are ye doin’ now?” she asked.

  Caspian sighed. “You know what I mean.”

  “Ye have to swim dif’erent now, but ye can still swim. There be another way ye could, too, like I’m doin’.”

  He craned his neck to watch.

  “I’m treadin’ water. Ye just sit upright in the water and circle yer legs underneath quick-like. With a bit of practice, ye can keep it up for ages.”

  The prince cast her a doubtful look but sat up and began circling his legs. “I’m not sure my hips are meant to bend that way,” he said, puffing.

  “Just softness,” she explained, winking. “Ye’ll soon be over that.”

  He kept treading water for a while longer before he floated on his back again. “That might work with practice, but we better go into shore before I drown.”

  Ebba splashed him and extended on her back next to him. “Aye, let’s do that.”

  She stilled when the prince didn’t move to follow.

  “Are ye comin’, matey?” she asked hesitantly.

  He didn’t answer, staring up at the shining moon.

  Ebba sat again. “Caspian?”

  He jerked and turned to look at her. “Sorry, Mistress Pirate. I . . . was distracted for a moment.”

  Ebba swallowed hard, hating the cold fear in her stomach. That was what she couldn’t bear—those moments when he was unreachable, gone to wretchedness. When he was speaking, it was easier to ignore the deep-rooted worry within. And her deep and ugly suspicion that sometimes Caspian felt so burdened he wanted to escape somewhere she couldn’t follow.

  “We’ll swim in, m’hearty?” she asked him gently.

  “Yes, of course,” he said with a quick smile.

  They kicked for shore, and she listened to Caspian’s quiet laughter whenever they went astray or bumped heads, wondering if she’d dreamed the despondent moment seconds ago. Yet he’d just mentioned his arm a couple of times, opening up again for the first time since his father’s death. She should take that as a good sign.

  When they reached the beach, Ebba squinted down at her dress and grimaced at the drenched and broken array of peacock feathers.