by Bex Hogan
Blood is still spilling down my face and I wipe away at it furiously. That’s two ships down, but my father’s boat is still close in its pursuit and, though both Ruby and Nestor have been disposed of, he’s not dissuaded from his mission.
‘Nice shot,’ Grace says with an impressed smile as she takes the pistol back from me to reload it. ‘Reckon you can make it twice?’
But even as I nod, the skerry-cutter pitches in the turbulent waters, and I know I won’t get a sure enough aim.
Grace knows it too, and shouts at Bronn, ‘Whatever you’re doing, do it faster!’
‘We’re through to the fiord,’ he calls back. We run to join him at the wheel, but the stretch of clearer water ahead does nothing to reassure me. At least the skerries got in their way as much as ours. Now it’ll be harder to stop them drawing alongside us.
‘You can’t outrun me.’ My father’s booming voice carries on the wind, echoing my thoughts. ‘You’ve already led me straight to her, Bronn. So predictable. I’ll spill your guts and eat them raw for this betrayal. Do you hear me?’
I look up at Bronn, whose jaw is clenched so tight it must hurt. What has my father seen in his behaviour these last years that I have not?
‘Please tell me you have a plan,’ Grace says to Bronn.
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Just make sure you two don’t fall overboard.’
We don’t even have time to ask him what he means, because he turns so hard and so suddenly that our boat tips horizontally and I think we’re going to capsize.
There’s a crash of wood on rock and for a moment I think it’s us, but then we’re righting ourselves and I spin round to look behind. Bronn had seen a skerry lurking under the surface of the water and lured my father straight into it by turning at the last possible second.
My father’s ship has smashed its hull on the sharp rock and they’re going nowhere fast.
I can feel the force of his fury from here.
‘Marianne!’ he bellows towards me, his voice a curse on the wind. ‘Everything that happens from now on is on your head. I will make them suffer. I will make them all beg for death. Because of you!’
I snatch a pistol from Grace and fire towards my father. I know it won’t reach him, that’s not my intent. I just want to give him a reply he’ll understand.
Grace touches me gently on the shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s sort you out.’
While she roots through the chests, I collapse to the deck, the blood loss making me light-headed. But it’s more than that. My father’s words have shaken me. I know he meant every one of them; his threats are never empty. I hate to admit it, but I’m afraid.
Grace squats next to me. ‘I’ve found a needle and thread, but there’s nothing to clean them with.’
‘Just do it.’
She gives me an apologetic glance, and then pushes the needle into my skin. I bite back the expletives, not wanting to make this harder for Grace than it already is. Though we’ve lost my father, Bronn still has to outmanoeuvre all the hazards of the fiord and we’re pitching from side to side. This scar isn’t going to be pretty.
By the time Grace is finished I have to lean over the side to vomit. But at least the bleeding’s stopped. Grace sits beside me, both of us redundant for the moment. All Bronn needs from us right now is not to distract him.
‘Are you OK?’ She’s not asking about my cut.
I close my eyes and consider my answer. Of course I’m not. I’ve just seen my father for the first time in months and he was trying to kill me. Even though I knew he was after me, it’s substantially more painful to be confronted with the reality.
‘What happened back there?’ she asks, sounding concerned.
Oh. She’s talking about my fight with Cleeve. The images that made an unwelcome appearance in my head couldn’t have come at a worse time and nearly cost me dearly. I don’t want to think about Briggs, not now, not ever.
‘Nothing, I’m fine.’ The lie slips out easily as I squash the mixture of horror and shame away.
‘It’s OK to hate them,’ Grace says softly. She looks pointedly at my scabbing knuckles. ‘And it’s OK to admit you killed Briggs. I understand. He stole something precious from you. But you need to make peace with it before you get yourself killed.’
Has she always known me this well? To have seen straight into my soul full of its darkest deeds? Such perception leaves me raw, exposed, and that combined with my guilt over Briggs makes me defensive. ‘Why do you care?’ I snap. ‘You’re a Snake, whose entire purpose was to train me to kill. Well, I’ve done it. I took a life. You succeeded. You should be happy.’
I regret the words the moment they’re out of my mouth, especially when I see the hurt flash across Grace’s face.
She is no Snake.
She takes a moment before she replies, and her voice is warm with kindness. ‘We both know you’ve been capable of killing someone for years. But you always chose not to and I have both admired and respected you for it. An assassin with a conscience. So I know that crossing the line won’t have been easy for you. And I’m here if you need to talk about it. Trust me, I know it’s hard to live with.’
I lean my head on her shoulder and slip my fingers into hers. Grace understands me better than I understand myself sometimes. I, on the other hand, have failed to consider the toll that killing has taken on her. Hearing the trace of sorrow in her voice is disconcerting.
And after everything she told me just days ago about her heritage I can’t help but feel responsible. She’s stayed with Father for me. Committed terrible acts to do so. And for nothing, because there simply can’t be any truth in her belief that I’m somehow descended from the lost royal bloodline.
And yet . . . the desire to head West has been with me as far back as I can remember, a longing that has always been inexplicable. Until maybe now. Is it possible I’ve wanted to travel there because of some deep and powerful sense that I’m a descendant? It’s an unsettling thought and I’m more than grateful when Bronn saves me from it.
‘Hate to interrupt,’ he says, not sounding the least bit sorry. ‘But we’re nearly out of the fiord and there’s nothing good waiting for us.’
Grace and I are instantly on our feet and join Bronn as he steers us through the last of the strait. Ahead is a tunnel, a natural gap in the island’s rock that will lead us to the open sea. What awaits beyond is far from welcoming. The sky is black, the wind strong, the waves swelling.
‘There’s a storm coming,’ Bronn says.
There certainly is, in more ways than one.
To start with the wind works in our favour. The triangular sails billow wide and we fair fly along the east coast of the First Isle. But the skerry-cutter is a small boat, not designed for ocean sailing, and it was always going to be a challenge to reach the Rock Island in it, even in calm seas.
We’ve almost managed to pass the First when the dark clouds finally obliterate the sun and cast an ominous gloom over our position. And then the heavens open, the rain instantly stinging my face like a thousand wasps and soaking me through. The wind whips up a gear, and used to the Maiden’s steadiness in such weather I’m panicked by how this ship dances to the waves’ tune, swaying in a frightening rhythm.
‘Drop the sails,’ Bronn shouts across the squall, his wet clothes sticking to his skin as tightly as the hair is plastered to his face.
I run to help Grace, who’s already made a start.
She blinks at me through the rain. ‘We’re going to run off downwind.’
I nod my understanding, hiding my fear, and race to the stern where long, heavy lines of rope are fastened. Though it takes an enormous effort I throw them overboard so that they trail behind us in the water, slowing us down.
It’s a risky tactic, sailing with the wind. If all goes well, we’ll travel quickly along, blown in the direction we want to go. But the wind is only going to get stronger and then we’re in danger of going too fast and ending up with the ship’s bow submerging beneat
h the wave in front, which would cause us to pitchpole, somersaulting until we capsize.
Grace is tying a rope round Bronn’s waist and I see the other end is attached to the helm. Then she comes over to me and gives me my own length.
‘Don’t want to lose any of us overboard,’ she says with a grin, as she fixes my end to one of the two masts. There is no fear in Grace’s eyes. She lives for this kind of danger.
The ship is soon taking a battering from the ferocious wind, emitting creaks and groans that do nothing to reassure my pounding heart. Bronn is steering with his usual skill, keeping the stern perpendicular to the approaching waves to prevent us from tipping too far to one side. A broach at this speed would be catastrophic. We’re moving at an incredible pace and Grace whoops and hollers into the gale. Waves roll rampantly over us, but we’re already as wet as we’re going to get, and I’m beginning to think our little cutter is going to survive this beating when there’s a deafening crack like a gunshot. For a moment I’m not sure what’s happened, but I look up in time to see the snapped foremast come sweeping down, bringing with it a wild tangle of rigging. I have to duck to avoid having my head smashed.
The ship instantly spins, Bronn’s control all but lost, and both Grace and I run to help him stabilise the wheel, which is whirling chaotically. We’re being thrown about like driftwood and it takes all our strength to keep the boat upright, while the broken mast swings from side to side, threatening to decapitate us at any moment. If this storm doesn’t break soon, we’re not going to survive.
And then it does. The wind drops almost as suddenly as it arrived, and though the rain outstays its welcome it’s far from our biggest problem – that honour is reserved for the destruction wrought by the mast, which has ended its rampage by smashing into the deck.
We need some pitch to patch up the holes before we take on too much water, but there isn’t any. We’re not going to progress quickly like this.
‘Where do you think we are?’ I say, looking around at the expanse of ocean.
‘Hard to know,’ Bronn says, squinting at the skyline. ‘If I had to guess, maybe a few miles away from the Second? We covered a lot of distance at that speed.’
So we’re still a long way from the Sixth, with only one mast. Great. How long will it take my father to return to the Maiden and set off after us? We couldn’t be an easier target.
‘Can we create a makeshift mast?’ I ask, my eyes searching around the small ship for anything that could be used to make a temporary pole.
‘What about the bowsprit?’ Grace suggests, staring at the spar extending out at the prow of the ship. ‘We could set it upright and tie it to what’s left of the original mast.’
Bronn nods. ‘That might work. Give me a hand.’
While Bronn and Grace put the plan into action, I spend the best part of the day detaching the sail from the defunct mast and salvaging what I can of the rigging to use in our substitute construction. The sail’s been ripped in several places, so when I finally make sense of the mess on deck I set about repairing the canvas, trying hard not to think of all the many reasons I should be panicking right now.
I could worry about the fearsome Viper ship that’s bound to be close on our tail, or the father who wants not only to kill me but also to make me suffer. I could be concerned about my friend who’s been hiding secrets from me since we met, or her assertion that I’m the last of a royal bloodline supposed to rule the lawless West. The burning throb in my face reminds me I could just worry about the slice down my cheek and the risk of infection it carries.
I fight those thoughts away and instead focus on what we need to do next. We’ll get our replacement mast up, then make it to the Second Isle and switch ships. From there we’ll carry on to the Sixth Isle and meet up with Torin, who will immediately declare his intention to help me and send out his Fleet in defiance of his father. We’ll bring the Viper to account for his crimes, with Torin becoming king for good measure. And I’ll live happily ever after.
Simple.
By the time night falls we’ve got something resembling a mast in place, with a sail attached, and we’re moving, albeit slowly, in the right direction. The rain has finally stopped, the wind once again kind, as if apologising for its earlier transgression, and we’ve decided to take it in turns at the helm so we can get some rest.
Bronn is sitting beside me, watching as I mash the herbs I bought from the apothecary what seems an age ago. I had planned to do this back on the First Isle before we went our separate ways. I hadn’t expected my father to appear and throw us into chaos. And back together.
I couldn’t get any earthenwort, but I have mettleroot and I’m mixing it with carrowseed and wolfbalm to create a dark paste, which despite its foul smell I’m certain will prove effective.
‘Please tell me that’s not our dinner,’ Bronn says, wrinkling his nose.
‘In a couple of days’ time when we’re still stuck on this boat with nothing to eat you might be wishing it was,’ I say with a wry smile. ‘Take off your shirt.’
He raises his eyebrows, but we’re no longer close enough for him to make the suggestive joke he would have a few years ago. We haven’t teased each other like that for a long time, too many words have been spoken in anger since, and the silence where his retort should be feels empty.
Though I only have moonlight to work by, I can see the lacerations on Bronn’s torso caused by the cat-o’-nine-tails are deep and infected. He must be in constant pain from them.
‘Did Milligan give you nothing for these?’
Bronn shakes his head. ‘I’m not one of her favourites.’
‘I’m sorry.’ This is all my fault.
‘Could have been worse; at least Adler didn’t have me keelhauled.’
‘He may yet,’ I say quietly as I start to smear my concoction on Bronn’s wounds. He flinches at my touch, but doesn’t protest, though I know it must be burning like fire.
It takes quite a while to tend to each cut, my indignation rising with every minute at the fact Milligan had refused him any salves. Even the injuries of punishment should be treated if my father wants his crew to perform to the best of their abilities, and I can’t help but wonder if Milligan’s dislike of Bronn is linked to her hatred of me.
The quartermaster always administers any floggings that require the cat, and the thought of Cleeve enjoying each barbaric stroke, every strip of skin torn off, is more than I can bear. It was a severe punishment for my father to choose, and the words he shouted at me back in the fiord come to my mind. Many sailors throughout the King’s Fleet refer to the cat as the ‘captain’s daughter’ and I wonder if this castigation meant more than I first realised.
‘What did my father mean when he said he knew you’d lead him to me?’ I can’t even bring myself to look at Bronn when I ask this, scared of what his answer might be.
He doesn’t reply immediately. I’m clearly not the only one afraid of this conversation.
‘You weren’t at my Initiation,’ he says eventually in barely more than a whisper. ‘It was nothing like yours.’ He pauses and it’s surprising to hear him sound haunted by the memory. I thought Bronn feared nothing.
‘You’ve never spoken about it.’ Not to me anyway.
Bronn turns away, as if he can hardly bear to think of it. ‘For good reason.’
I wait, not wanting to say anything that might make this harder for him.
He can’t look at me. ‘It lasted several weeks.’
I’m shocked. How is that possible?
‘It started much as I expected. Tests, challenges, proving my knowledge of the islands, the lore. Then came the first kill. I was to assassinate a diplomat from the Mist Island who was causing the King a headache. It needed to look accidental.’
Bronn has never spoken to me about his assignments before and I realise I’m holding my breath. ‘How did you do it?’
‘Caught a venomray in the southern shallows of the Fallow Island, extracted its poison and di
pped a stiletto blade into it. Then all I had to do was push past her in a crowd, at the market. Prick her neck. She probably thought she’d been stung by a wasp. Two minutes later she was dead. No questions, no suspicions. A perfect execution. I thought that would be the end. I honestly thought that was all there was to it.’
‘That wasn’t enough?’
Now Bronn meets my gaze. ‘The thing about Initiations, as you of all people should know, is Adler tests our weaknesses. He knew both of mine.’
And that’s when I realise how much I still view Bronn through younger, innocent eyes. Growing up he was perfect to me. I wouldn’t have known what flaws to put on trial. Clearly my father knew him better.
‘The night after I’d celebrated what I thought was the end of my Initiation, I was taken from my bed, blinded with a sack over my head, bound hand and foot, and shoved in a barrel. They tossed me overboard. I didn’t know the barrel was still attached to the ship. All I knew was darkness and rising water. I thought I’d been left to drown.’
My heart hurts for him. As an orphan who doesn’t even know what island he was born on, it makes sense that one of the things Bronn would fear above all else was losing his home, the place he’d found on the ship, the family he’d made in the crew. Dying alone, rejected. He must have been terrified.
‘I don’t know how long I was left there,’ he says, ‘but when they brought me back on board, I was weak, disorientated. Which is just what your father wanted.’
He pauses, and then surprises me by asking, ‘Do you remember Dart?’
The name sounds familiar and I cast my mind back. Crew come and go frequently, and when I was younger I didn’t pay much attention. But I do recall a spindly lad, similar in age to Bronn, who always seemed a bit out of place. Too nice for the Maiden. I don’t remember him staying with the crew long. I have a horrid feeling I’m about to find out why.
