by Alex Lidell
Quinn is the first off the boat when we tie up to the Helix, and Zolan uses the moment to slide close to me, leaning in to be heard over the rain. “Someone wise once told me that courage isn’t the absence of fear,” he murmurs, “but a willingness to act despite it. You did well, Your Highness.”
I turn toward him, the rainwater pouring beneath my shirt and making me shiver. “If you want to offer someone encouragement, Zolan, try a kind word to Mr. Dana. I’ll take care of myself.”
The following dawn, it’s all I can do to haul myself out of bed. Two convulsions struck me overnight, and my body teeters on the brink of collapse. However I managed to get through briefing the admiral yesterday without falling unconscious, the bill for the magic has come due. With interest.
“I’ll pass the word to Commander Zolan that you are indisposed.” Kyra watches me spill my coffee all over the breakfast table and takes the cup away, cleaning up the mess with a rag. She holds her left hand close to her body, her wrist swollen from a fall taken during battle. The first of many to come, I think.
“You should see the surgeon.” I jerk my chin toward the injury. Kyra blanches, and I quickly change course. Stepping into the hell of blood, amputation, and melted faces can do more damage than the fall had, especially to an empath. “Or Catsper. He has quite the arsenal of medical field knowledge. If—” A knock at the door interrupts my thought, and I force myself to sit straighter before calling the guest to enter.
“Your Highness.” Standing at the cabin door, Zolan is the picture of naval courtesy. His pristine uniform cuts well over a body hard with years of seawork, his face clean-shaven, his hair combed. Ready for a new day, while I’m struggling to sit without collapsing. “A moment of your time?”
“Of course,” I say, though the only worse time for this audience would be in the middle of a convulsion. Not that I can tell the commander that. “What can I do for you?”
“I thought you might wish to know that Mr. Dana was able to run a sail drill this morning with all haste and minimal noise. It was his best work yet, and the men noticed. As did I.”
Ah. So he was listening last night. “Thank you.” I long for another sip of coffee but don’t trust myself to pick up the cup without spilling it in front of Zolan. “I would appreciate if you did not mention our conversation to him.”
A small bow.
I wait for Zolan to leave, but the man pulls out a chair and sits without invitation. The small gesture is a gross breach of naval tradition, and the wood’s creaks of protest beneath Zolan’s muscled frame might as well be a trumpet’s call. “I wanted to suggest, ma’am, that you take some time to rest. Recover. We all wish to see you at your best upon our arrival in the Diante Empire, and I wonder if you might not have some lingering preparation to yet complete on that score.”
I raise my face, meeting the man’s eyes. I may lack Zolan’s quarterdeck experience, but I’ve been trained for command since I was eight—a fact the man seems to have overlooked. “You wanted to suggest, Mr. Zolan, that I stay off the quarterdeck because the crew little wishes to take orders from me,” I say with unapologetic bluntness. “And you are of a mind with them. Especially after the cowardly display you think you saw from me during action.”
A touch of color rises on Zolan’s face, and I wonder when he was last in a conversation that failed to follow his plan. He shifts in his seat, adjusts his shirt cuffs. Coughs into a fist.
Leaning forward, I interlace my fingers on the tabletop. “You look like a man with something to say, Mr. Zolan. You might as well do so.”
“The Felielle navy has centuries of tradition,” Zolan says quietly but not weakly as he recovers himself and sets his course. Like my voice moments ago, his tone is also void of apology. Facts laid out on a chart. “None of those centuries involved females on the quarterdeck. It isn’t something that changes in a day. Or something that should be changed now, when we’ve more important battles before us.”
“I see.” I tilt my head. “And is it my gender or my seamanship that has you so convinced of my inferiority?”
Zolan’s chin rises, but his voice stays even. “Inferiority is your word, Your Highness, not mine. I would hardly call a mission to negotiate an alliance that would turn the tide of the war to be inferior to that of a naval captain. We need not all do the same job, ma’am. Let the men bring you safely to where you need to be, and you can secure allies to bring us all safely home.”
And if I can’t? My chest tightens, and it’s a struggle to keep my hands relaxed, my face calm. I’m a sailor, not a diplomat, no matter how much Zolan and the world would find the reverse to be more convenient. “You’ve not answered my other question, sir,” I say instead. I do not expect a repeat of this conversation, so we might as well cover all ground. “I’m Ashing trained. Do you find my education lacking? Go ahead and imagine me a man for the sake of your answer, if it’s more palatable.”
Zolan’s lips press together, his gaze on a small scratch on my heavy wooden table. “From what I’ve observed, outside actual battle, you are a superb sailor for your age and rank. A few bad habits, like all youngsters, but as with Mr. Dana’s, they are correctable.” Zolan lifts his face. “The problem, Your Highness, is that to correct those habits, I’d need to stress you as I do Dana, and you can hardly bear to see him suffer through it. But even if you’d be able to bear it, and I’d be willing to treat a woman thus—which I am not—the fact remains that you cannot hold your head in battle. And there is no correcting that.”
I wonder whether it’s fatigue or dignity or the practical reality of this new war that finally snaps the tether of my control. Whatever it is, it sends a snapping shock through my nerves as I see myself rising to my feet. Slowly. Deliberately. My eyes locked on Zolan’s.
Zolan’s brows flicker, confusion brushing his weather-hardened face.
“You think you know what happened during battle, Zolan?” My voice is low and even, my feet wide apart and braced. “You think you have a read on me?” The magic in my blood perks despite our exhaustion, and with my next breath, a phantom burst of wind knocks Zolan’s chair backward onto the deck. I stride forward, my red hair whipping around my face as I tower over the commander, who scrambles on the deck like an overturned bug. “Where do you think Admiral Brice’s fortunate winds came from? The Goddess? Why are there so few Helix sailors with their eyelids melted shut?”
Chapter 21
Kyra
Kyra pulled the sleeve of her dress over her swollen wrist and shifted the satchel slung across her shoulder. Despite the perfectly respectable reason she had to be standing outside the gun room just now, Kyra knew that really, she was doing it again—meddling in things that were not her business, in the lives of people who wanted to be left alone. Even if being left alone would destroy them.
Well, Kyra was here now. And so was the gun room. Bulkheads had a way of appearing and disappearing aboard the Helix, the carpenter and his mates thinking nothing of taking down a wall to relocate it to a more convenient location. A pair of seamen squeezed by her, ducking their heads under low-hanging beams and reeking of sweat. The non-officers were allowed fourteen inches of space to sling their hammocks, and the close quarters bred stench.
Kyra waited until the men were gone before taking a cautious breath of air. So what if she was meddling? Somebody had to. Squaring her shoulders, Kyra knocked.
“Yes?” The voice belonged to the Helix’s second lieutenant, Dana. The same one Kyra had thrown out of Nile’s cabin earlier. Kyra’s stomach tightened. Of course Catsper wouldn’t be alone. And of course he would be with the one man who likely wanted to chuck Kyra overboard. He had certainly been unhappy to leave Nile’s cabin.
The door opened, and Kyra’s mouth filled with traces of Dana’s sour concern.
“Yes?” Dana said again, his voice softer now that he was looking down at her. “Is Nile well?” The sour taste intensified as if Kyra had licked a slice of lemon.
“Yes.” Realizing tha
t she’d been standing in the pass-through despite having been the one to knock, Kyra shifted her weight and fiddled with the satchel strap as she sought out words. Giving her fingers something to do helped. “Yes, Nile is quite all right. I…I apologize for speaking brashly to you earlier.”
Dana shook his head. “You were in the right.”
Kyra rocked back, unsure whether it was the ship or Dana to blame for her sudden imbalance. That was the problem with emotions; they told only a sliver of the truth. Sensing that the pause had stretched too long for comfort, Kyra finally located her voice. “I was looking for Catsper.”
Dana’s brow twitched, his surprise tingling on Kyra’s tongue. “You’ve found him.” Dana bladed his body to allow Kyra free entry into the officers’ sacred space. “For better or worse.”
On the heels of Dana’s words, a knife buzzed by Kyra’s ear and stuck into the bulkhead behind her, the hilt vibrating with a melodic hum.
Kyra jumped, her yelp piercing the air.
Dana’s solid hands caught her shoulders, steadying her from behind. “Pay no attention, lass. We keep waiting for that one to grow up, but it might be a lost cause.” Dana cleared his throat. “What can we do for you?”
Blinking to clear her vision, Kyra found Catsper sitting atop the long table that stretched the length of the gun room. He’d already acquired a second knife and now tossed it in one hand, letting the blade spin in the air between catches. His green eyes stared at her in a silent demand to explain the intrusion.
Coming here was a mistake. But, since it was already made, Kyra might as well ride the full wave of the doomed exercise. She made herself meet the marine’s eyes. He had saved her life. “I burned you yesterday.” Her voice carried more confidence than she felt. “I came to check after the wound. I brought some salve for it too.” She tugged on her satchel by way of evidence.
Catsper leaned back on his arms, the muscles of his chest and shoulders shifting beneath his clothes. If the burn pained him—and it bloody had to, didn’t it?—the discomfort plainly bothered him little. Catsper continued holding the silence for several more seconds, weighing Kyra with his gaze for each stretched moment. “So then… You want me to take off my shirt?” he drawled finally, his brow rising as he cocked his head. “What about my pants?”
Dana shut his eyes, his face reddening.
“I’m confident saying that we’d all prefer if your clothes stayed on.” Kyra pressed her lips together, glancing at Dana. “The lieutenant especially, I think.”
Catsper snorted.
Kyra crossed her arms over her chest, wincing at the sudden lightning shot of pain. She hadn’t really expected the marine to let anyone near his injuries, and now at least Dana knew what to keep an eye on. Not that she was done with Catsper yet. “Nile also said you could take a look at my arm. Given that you are the one who injured it, I thought it a fair request to make.”
Sliding off the table, Catsper walked around to its other end, where a pot of ink and some paper lay ready. Sheathing the knife in his boot, the marine picked up the pen and began writing.
“What are you doing?” Dana inquired.
“Explaining the difference between a doctor and a guardsman to the Helix’s good captain,” Catsper replied without raising his head from his work. “Would you say ‘keep your pet empath on a leash’ or just ‘leashed’ is better form in formal correspondence?”
“Excuse me.” Dana slid the latch on the gun room closed, cloistering the three of them inside. With three long steps, he reached the marine’s side, snatched up the paper, and crumpled it in his hand. “As I said,” Dana told Kyra without the slightest hesitation in speech as he pulled a chair out for her. “We try not to pay this one much mind if we can help it. What happened to the arm?” His voice softened, and he crouched as if to make his large frame less intimidating. This from a man who strolled the decks as thunder incarnate. All Nile’s associates wore masks, it seemed.
Pulling back her sleeve, Kyra carefully displayed her misshapen wrist. Despite having braced for this, her breath quickened, a gasp escaping her as Dana’s fingers connected.
“I’ll take care of it.” Catsper’s voice, suddenly beside her, made Kyra jump for the second time. When she could move again, she found Catsper towering over her and Dana both. The marine glared at the officer, as if the other had laid claim on marked prey instead of offering assistance.
Dana put up his hands and backed away toward the door. “I believe the weather is shifting. Excuse me while I check on the sails.”
The door clicked open, then shut. Perhaps Kyra should have gone too.
Catsper crossed his arms. “A day ago, you were trembling with fear that I’d snap your neck in two. Or worse. Now you come to me injured? A bloody rat has a better sense of self-preservation.”
Kyra shifted. This was it, the shot across the bow, as Nile would say. The reason she came. “Oh, I’ve a very solid concern over my hide. You, on the other hand?” Her voice was soft but not weak. Not in this. “You court death and pain as if answering a siren’s call. And I’ve decided I’m not letting you.”
Catsper blinked. Then blinked again. “Are you insane?” he asked, his voice filled with genuine curiosity.
Kyra rubbed her bad wrist gingerly. “Do you imagine I enjoyed being thrown down a ladder yesterday?” she asked. “Being terrified? Being held prisoner in a cargo hold while the ship threatened to tear apart?”
“I imagine it saved your life.” The note in Catsper’s words suggested that he might be regretting yesterday’s actions already. Too late now.
“Oh, it did,” Kyra agreed readily. “You did. And now I’m going to return the favor. I don’t expect you to find the experience any more pleasant than I did.”
Catsper took a step forward, using his height and bulk to claim the space around Kyra. “Let us get a few things straight,” he said quietly. “In addition to your theory being of no consequence, you are also in as much a position to let or not let me do something as that bulkhead over there is. The one with my knife still in it. Go find someone else to save. Are we clear?”
Kyra tilted her head up to look at Catsper. He was strong and used to the implicit intimidation that power brought. Whether Catsper’s victim cowed or squared up to match force with force, the marine won the home ground advantage. So Kyra did neither.
Reaching with her good hand into the satchel, she pulled out the small bit of metal that lay beside the salve. Pinching the pin, she twisted it in her fingers.
As light refracted off the pin’s surface, the tsunami of Catsper’s emotions, so well blocked until this moment, hit Kyra full force. Fury. Dread. Pain. Kyra gasped, and the storm disappeared at once, whatever shield Catsper had learned to put up inside him snapping into place. Too late, though; Kyra had the scent now and was prepared to stay the course. “Why are you letting Nile believe the Spardic Command gave you leave to go with her?” she asked, dropping the pin back into the satchel. “Why not tell her the truth, that you stopped being a Spade the day before the Port Mead assault? That is what happened, isn’t it?”
“You came to get your arm fixed?” Catsper said.
Kyra paused. “Yes.”
Catsper snatched Kyra’s injured arm into his grip, his other hand trapping the swollen joint between his thumb and forefinger.
Kyra’s heart pounded against her ribs, but she made herself raise her chin. Being injured made her safer, not more vulnerable in Catsper’s presence. She was sure. A shiver raced through her. A test. This was another test, another game that Catsper played to make her scurry away like everyone always did.
But he hadn’t run from her. Not when she stood near an explosive that melted shut others’ eyes, not when her magic shattered a lantern, not when she burned him for fear he’d do what others had. When Kyra’s life was in danger, he’d not left.
“Shall we continue the fascinating discussion from earlier?” Catsper asked casually. “Or are other things occupying your mind just now?�
��
Kyra bit her lip. He wouldn’t hurt her. A game. This was all a game.
The pressure on Kyra’s arm increased slowly. First a sting, then a flame of agony shooting down through her elbow and wrist. She bit her lip as tears welled in her eyes and spilled, one by one, over her cheeks. Stars. Stars. Stars. Catsper’s hand moved, and the pain doubled. Tripled. Kyra whimpered, the nails of her free hand pressed so deeply into her palm that blood welled in the cracks of skin. Catsper’s hand moved again, this time over her swollen wrist, and the heavy dread of surrender washed over Kyra’s blood. She’d wagered and lost. She—
The room tilted. Kyra jerked back her arm, but the marine held fast.
“Stop.” Kyra’s voice rang clear and loud through the gun room. “You win. All right? Just stop. Let me go, and I’ll leave you be too.”
Catsper’s hands stilled. His face swung toward her, and for a heartbeat, triumph rocked his gaze. Then the triumph was gone, and Catsper’s jaw tightened. “I’m almost done,” he said gruffly.
“Almost done with what?” Kyra shook her head, trying to clear it. She pulled back on her arm again, gasping when he refused to let go.
“Bloody hell, Kyra,” Catsper muttered as if annoyed with himself, “I’m setting your damn wrist, not tormenting you for my amusement. As you asked me to do thirty storms-damned seconds ago. Aren’t you supposed to feel when someone intends to use you for target practice?”
“I rarely feel you at all.” Kyra breathed the confession, which seemed very much a secondary concern just now. “I thought you knew. You shield against me. Please let go now. It hurts very much.”
“Of course it does. It’s dislocated.” His voice hardened to an order. “Draw a breath.”
Kyra shook her head.
“Your call,” said Catsper, and Kyra’s wrist exploded flame. The agony morphed into a dull thumping ache a moment later, and the marine stepped away. “Is there anything else you desire before you return my belongings to me and get out of my life?”
