"You and me," she said. "They'll call down to start the drum probably in the next half hour. You haven't done a shift at the oars yet, have you?"
"No." I seethed, certain Bannon hadn't been the one to set this assignment.
"Then you'll begin on the inner position. It will take time and practice before you can manage this side of the oar."
She belittled me in every word, and I knew it. I closed my eyes, nodding, and straightened my shoulders. We might be tasked with rowing together, but I didn't have to speak with her. I stroked Schala instead, and scratched her ears, grounding myself in the soft texture of her fur.
The caracal gave a sly miaow, green eyes slitted as she peered at Mara. Her back legs grew tense, claws pricking my thigh.
"Call off your fam—"
Mara cleared her throat, glancing askance. "Your cat. I'm not here to fight with you."
"Hush, Schala," I murmured to the cat. She settled into place again, tail twitching, eyes still locked on the lieutenant.
"How did you train her like that?" Mara tilted her head to one side, arching one dark eyebrow. "I've only ever seen working hounds take direction, and certainly no cat I've ever known will listen to a damn word anybody says."
I shrugged. "I didn't train her. She simply follows my lead. At least most of the time."
"Hm."
I had the distinct impression I'd only made Mara more convinced the caracal was some sort of familiar, rather than a simple feline companion. I let out a low sigh, my anger simmering, and I gave Schala an indulgent scratch behind the ear. I wished I had fresh bits of crab or chicken to offer her as reward for distrusting Mara just as much as I did.
"There's no use pretending we can get along," the lieutenant said. She'd turned her face away from me, maybe thinking if she met my eyes, I'd put some sort of wicked hex on her. "But if we both wish to continue serving the Red Bear, I think it's imperative we find some sort of common ground."
"Why are you so keen on serving Bannon, instead of some other warlord?" I jibed. "Surely there are other Sanraethi worth fighting for. If you disagree with your captain accepting me into his horde, surely he'd understand if you swear your axe in service to another."
"There are enough noble Sanraethi soldiers to fight the stars in the sky," she retorted with pride. "And enough loyal warlords in service to Rhode, I could have my pick of great blades to follow into battle. I will not, though. My axe—and my life—belong to Bannon."
She lifted one hand and ran her fingers along her temple, over a fine starburst of scars I'd never noticed before. Her tightly coiled braids began right above it, making it easy to miss in the crisscross of her dark hair.
A deep, ugly disgust filled my gut. How dare she say she belonged to Bannon? How could she, when Bannon was mine? Was there something between them that I was not aware of?
"What are you implying?" I growled.
A sly smile touched her lips. "So covetous and protective. Is Alaric Khan's personal witch so uncertain of her power over men, after all?"
I got to my feet, unceremoniously dumping Schala out of my lap. "I will fight you again right now, Mara, if you like. Let's go up to the weather deck. Would you prefer swords, or shall I beat you to death with my fists?"
"Sit down," she ordered.
At first, I resisted, snarling at her, unconcerned with the others around us, who now stared at me. The gallery had begun to fill up, and I recognized many of the soldiers assigned to row with us. Had she done this on purpose? Gathered her allies into the gallery so they could protect her, or even maybe aid her, in a rematch against me?
If that's the case, so be it. The beast within me surged for a fight. This bitch is saying she belongs to my mate! I'll destroy that handsome face of hers and tear the braids from her head before I let her claim him so!
"I said, sit down, soldier," Mara snapped. The tone in her voice cut through the red haze of my thoughts. Angry or no, I knew better than to try and pick a fight here and now.
Things between me and Bannon still haven't come right. Beating—or trying to beat—his first lieutenant in a brawl right now would only make them worse.
Scowling, I spat, "I am not a witch, and you know that by now."
"Yes, I know." She waved a hand dismissively. "I only wanted to make a point. You think you're in control, but clearly you need a better hold on your anger."
Narrowing my eyes at her, I sat. Schala immediately bounded back onto my knees, settling down and fixing an indignant sneer on Mara. As if Mara had been the one to dump her on the floor. I loved this cat more and more every day.
"Well," I prodded. "What are you implying? Bannon has not taken a lover since his wife died, so don't tell me the two of you have a history."
"No," she admitted. "Not like that."
We were interrupted by a call from above, warning rowers to prepare for cast off. The last stragglers found their seats and up and down the rows, and those in the inner position reached up to bring down the oar. Frowning, I watched the rowers in front of me, then did as they did, pulling the smooth, large shaft of wood down until it rested just above our laps. Mara took her end of it, resting with her arms draped over it.
"Do you know how the Red Bear got his name?" she asked me.
I nodded, as the drummer appeared at the far end of the gallery and made their way to the raised stage in the center.
"A battle with giants, from your northern mountains. He and his warband were captured and held prisoner, until he formulated a plan to escape."
"Aye," Mara said. She tapped the scar at her temple again. "He wasn't the only one with that warband. My brother and I both served alongside him."
Bannon's story came back to me. Several of the warriors had been tortured or killed. At one point, the giants had selected the sister of one of the other victims, and that was when Bannon launched his counterattack.
"Ah," I said. "It was you he saved from torture that day."
"Torture or death," she confirmed. "He proved himself a leader. The elders of our clans heralded his acts and named him Red Bear. From then on, he carried the axe not of a simple warrior, but of a warlord, donned with cords of crimson and black. And I swore to follow him."
"Hmph."
Another cry came down from above. The drummer lifted their hammers, and the first beat rang out. In answer, the rowers—all but me and Mara—answered with a loud and boisterous, "Hoorah!" and started up another lively, rhythmic chant. I struggled to match my motions to the beat at first, until Mara took the lead, and I lent my strength to hers for a smooth push and pull.
"I suppose I might have taken the captain as my lover," she said after a moment.
The red flicker of jealous hatred sparked in my chest again, but I kept it quiet, refusing to make eye contact with her and staring down at the wooden pole in my hands. Schala, discomfited by the rowing motions and the disturbance to her peace in my lap, slipped up to my shoulder and perched there.
"You're going to be too big to do that, soon enough," I grumbled at her. She thrust her head against mine in an aggressively affectionate head butt.
"I mean," Mara went on, "he is an exceptionally fine man, and fights like a true beast. I can only imagine he fucks like one as well."
The gall! I gritted my teeth, and right on cue, Schala issued a low, guttural growl and hissed at Mara.
Ignoring us both, she continued. "If he hadn't been so purely in love with Aileen, perhaps I could have shown him the true depths of my passion. Alas, though... he remained steadfast in his marriage, and I pined for him alone, even as I found others to keep me company at night and father three beautiful children I wouldn't trade for the world."
Another conversation with Bannon came back to me. Mara has three children of her own and speaks of bearing another once we venture home. I pictured the lieutenant upon their return, seeking out Bannon himself to lie with her and sire the new babe. Schala rumbled, claws pricking my shoulder. The brush of her stiffened hackles tickled my neck and e
ar.
Get a hold of yourself, Sadira. She is trying to upset you. Don't play into her manipulation.
I used to be so good at ignoring taunts and bullying. I could endure it from almost anyone—except Alaric. He could play my nerves as if I were a harp strung just for his hands, and he always knew exactly which points to pluck.
Because he threatened my only securities. Promised to give me away to the whoremonger or replace me with a more obedient slut. Shamed me for failing to please him and suggested he'd let one of the other sorcerers have me instead, his cast-off, thrown to them like a bone thrown to the dogs.
How could Mara play on those same fears so well? Did she know how painful these thoughts of abandonment were? How deeply it wounded me to think of Bannon tiring of me and my unique darkness, and moving on to a lover more... more normal?
Of course, she must. Is that not what she's telling you right this moment? That she is the woman he passed over, in favor of you?
"Even after Aileen passed," Mara said, "Bannon had no appetite for women. As though she'd taken every measure of love he'd ever have, for anyone else. Except of course, Ailsa. But that's different altogether."
"Why are you telling me this?" I demanded.
"So you understand why I will never leave Bannon's side."
Her knuckles on the wood blanched as she tightened her grip. A sense of danger prickled at the back of my neck, and all at once it occurred to me: I wasn't the only one infuriated by these revelations.
"I have a great deal of respect and admiration for the captain," she said. "And yes, even love. Passionate love, which I doubt will be matched by any man I could have in his place. I never, ever would have expected him to take another woman after his wife. Least of all a prisoner of war, who stood enemy across the battlefield, and in fact the favorite concubine of a twisted, sadist king. Of all the worthy bedmates he might have chosen, you were the last one I would have guessed."
"Perhaps you don't know as much about your captain as you think," I hissed. Already the rowing was taking its toll, making my arms sore and chest ache as I breathed. Or maybe it was Mara's infuriating tone.
"I know he had no choice but to bed you," she retorted. "Thanks to the savage customs of your horrible desert. Do you know how disgusted it made me, to know what he must do to you to cement our victory? I would have sooner broken with all those desert clans who fought with us and driven them back to their corners of the desert, than know my dearest friend must assent to rape to win his war."
"Ha." I pushed the oar with perhaps a little more force than necessary, causing her to have to rein us in so we did not strike the oar in front of us. "What you don't understand—what none of you understand—is Bannon and I reached our own agreement that night. You claim to know him so well and yet still think him capable of rape? I saw something different in him, something dark and primitive and ultimately beautiful. I saw the bear, where you saw only a helpless man. How can you say you love him if you think him so powerless?"
Again, I'd pushed the oar too hard, fueled by my indignance, and she jerked it back, countering me. Now I'd infuriated her.
"Just because you agreed to be raped makes it no better!" she snapped. Other rowers looked back over their shoulders, expressions curious or puzzled or darkly disapproving.
"No." I seized control of the oar from her and took over the rowing, energized in my indignation. "Listen to me and listen well, Mara. I decided the outcome of that night. I allowed Bannon to claim me, because I desired him, because he showed me a strength and passion to satisfy my own. Perhaps you need it to be rape so you can believe it isn't real, or that I've ensorcelled him with my wiles. The truth is I have found my mate and master, and Bannon did not choose you."
"I know that!"
She shoved the shaft of the oar straight down, into our laps, arresting its motion entirely. I'd pushed my muscles too much and they gave up easily, offering her no resistance.
"I know my captain wants you," Mara conceded. "That is why I need you to understand how much he means to me, and to the rest of the horde. I don't like you, but I will tolerate you because he loves you. And because he loves you, we must find a way to work together, because I also know you will not leave his side."
"Oh?" The assertion, coming from her, surprised me.
"Yes. Because should you ever betray him, I will cut your heart out myself."
I peered at her, rubbing at one upper arm. I wanted to bite back at her, even remind her how our last fight had ended. But then, how could I? When all she'd done was promise to protect and defend the man I loved?
Even if she has the last word now, it is bittersweet comfort. It will not change things or give her what she genuinely wants.
Mara continued to row while I massaged sore muscles. Schala settled down with a soft, grumpy sound, and the stump of her tail thumped the back of my neck in an amusing gesture of annoyance.
After several silent minutes, I took hold of my side of the oar again and helped Mara row. It was my silent way of agreeing we must learn to tolerate one another, despite the deep distrust between us.
We'd just settled into a smooth, strong rhythm together when another cry sounded from up above. I glanced up, expecting perhaps a steering instruction, but no; another shout echoed the first, and soon a chorus of frightened cries drifted down to us from above.
"What's going on?" I asked Mara. She stared back at me, brows furrowed, and shook her head.
"Another fire?" one of the rowers asked his partner. The drummer had stopped their rhythm and half risen from their seat, while sailors up and down the gallery were abandoning their oars and heading for the ladderways.
"Come on," I told Mara, pivoting to climb off the back of our bench. We'd chosen a spot farther aft and could make it to the aft stairs before the others, avoiding the crush. Without waiting to see if she would follow, I slipped out of the gallery with Schala at my heels.
Others on the second and middle decks had also chosen the same stairs, but still we made it up to the open weather deck in minutes. I searched for smoke, letting out a huff of relief when I saw none.
"Goddess Sherida..."
Mara had followed me after all, and her mouth hung open as she looked up, overhead. I followed her gaze to the sails, and a surge of deep foreboding made my stomach lurch.
The wide, white canvas above us billowed in the breeze, soaked with the dark, crimsons stains of blood.
Chapter Twenty-Four
More evil omens. More bad luck. If the sailors had seemed superstitious before, now they were downright fanatic.
"It's clearly a warning from the spirits of the seas!" one of them bellowed as Captain Arne took his place on the stern deck, overlooking the crowd.
"We must turn back!" another insisted. "We'll never make it to the next port alive!"
More shouts and terrible predictions followed, until Arne held up both hands and called for silence. The splattered red sails flapped overhead, as though in threat.
"We're not turning back," he insisted, and had to wait out a loud round of protests and boos before going on.
I hadn't had much time or reason to pay attention to Arne in the past, but as I watched him now, a sense of unease pricked at my instincts. A stout, self-assured man, he spoke with a booming confidence from deep in his barrel chest. The agitation buzzing in the mob around me felt far too strong for his calm, collected assurance, though. Maybe under other circumstances, it could have been effective, but at this particular moment, standing under the ruined sails spattered with blood as though from the scene of a murder, it rang of false and determined denial.
The same way he insisted the fire must have been caused by exotic spices and oils spontaneously igniting. They might have accepted it once, but this time...
"We will not be frightened off our voyage by pestering spirits!" he asserted. "A lot of nasty skilggra, that's all it is!"
"Skilggra?" I asked Mara.
"Sea hags." Her mouth twisted into a frown. "Old p
agan folklore. A stupid claim, on a ship dedicated to Sherida, and with her own shrine right beneath our very feet."
"Huh! Sailors," scoffed a voice from beside me. Olson had arrived, with his usual partner Gregor beside him. Rayyan joined us too, but said nothing, staring up at the bloodied sails, face pale.
"They cling to many of the old beliefs in spirits and wild gods," Mara explained. The animosity between us seemed forgotten for now. "Some have taken up faith in the Goddess, but still these tales of skilggra and troll-cats and shapeshifters spring up."
I took another glance at the sails and twined my fingers with Rayyan's for reassurance. If the Goddess Sherida watched over this voyage, she hadn't offered her parishioners much favor.
"We'll need volunteers to mend the sails," Arne was saying. "Let's see hands, now. An extra ration of mead or wine for those who accompany the sail master up to the rigging."
"That's a job for days," Olson muttered under his breath. Rayyan answered with a slow nod.
An older sailor in neat clothing, with a white moustache twisted up into curlicues at the ends, made his way to the front of the crowd and turned to face us with a patient look on his face.
He must be the sail master. I stroked the end of my braid, watching and waiting for any of the crew to join the man at the front. Unhappy murmurs and nasty grumbling rippled through the group.
"I'll do it," I said at last.
Dozens of faces turned my way, many bright with surprise. I wasn't afraid of work, though. Bloodstained sails were an ominous portent, but it would be worse to leave them up out of fear. Better to dispose of them as quickly as possible.
I waded through the crowd to join the sail master at the front. He tipped me a nod of the head and extended his hand.
"Thank you," he said, in a comfortable, creaking old voice. "I am Jahn."
"Hello. I'm—"
"Sadira, I know." He gave me a patient smile. "Torv has spoken of you to me. Our resident elathae with her little feline companion."
The word shook me. "What? Did you say—"
We were interrupted as Torv pushed his way to the front. His pipe stuck out of his mouth at an angle making him look argumentative and ready for a brawl. The lack of courage among his crew seemed to have riled him up, and as many of them shouted out objections and urged him not to go, he waved them off.
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